


Après moi le déluge

by comeaftermejackrobinson



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Drama, F/M, Romance, Season/Series 01
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-14
Updated: 2017-06-13
Packaged: 2018-08-30 22:03:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 38,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8550910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/comeaftermejackrobinson/pseuds/comeaftermejackrobinson
Summary: She had become a constant in his life, a silver lining of hope ripping through the darkness. He was halfway into falling in love with her, and that couldn't be good.





	1. Chapter 1

 

> " **Après nous le déluge** " ("After us, the [ deluge ](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Flood_myth) ") is a [ French ](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/France) expression, attributed to [ Madame de Pompadour ](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Madame_de_Pompadour) , the lover of King [ Louis XV of France ](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Louis_XV_of_France) . An alternative form, attributed to Louis himself, is " **Après moi le déluge** " ("After me, comes the flood").

 

 

_I must go on standing_

_You can’t break that which isn’t yours_

_I must go on standing_

_I’m not my own, it’s not my choice_

 

après moi - regina spektor

 

He closed the case file and poured himself a glass of scotch. He trusted the alcohol to numb his senses and silence the scandal on his mind. He had been thinking of her nonstop lately. He had to put an end to that. He prayed that the scotch would wash away the lingering sensation of her lips on his. It wasn’t right, it wasn’t healthy, and it sure as hell wasn’t fair to Rosie. The divorce would be official soon, but she was still his wife on paper. He hadn’t respected that a few days ago, and that weighed heavily on his conscience.

 

He had tried to convince himself he had only kissed the Honourable Phryne Fisher in the line of duty, but he knew very well that they could have done without that kiss. He had got carried away and lost control and perspective. He had acted recklessly. Having feelings for her was one thing, but acting on them was another. He couldn’t let it happen again. And yet he desperately longed for more.

 

It had been a long time since he had felt anything like this. War had left him scarred and depressed, and his soon to be former wife hadn't been able to cope with that. He didn't blame her, he never could. They hadn't married with a war in mind, and once he came back she had done the best to her abilities to help him. But he wasn't the man she had fallen in love with, and she wasn't the person he needed by his side. In fact, it was  like he couldn't feel anything for anyone. She had really tried to support him, but it had become too much. And they had finally accepted it was time to move on. Maybe they had held on for longer than it was healthy. Maybe they should have called it quits a long time ago. He couldn't know. When they had decided to separate he had only known that Rosie deserved better than someone who only seemed to care about his job and that when at home wished to be left alone with his books and his gardening and his thoughts.

 

But then along had come Phryne Fisher, trespassing on his crime scenes, driving into them on her Hispano-Suiza every time a body dropped. She had been annoying at first, then she had become his friend, and now she was becoming more. She had started to feel like a necessity, an addiction. He enjoyed working with her, listening to her theories and her reasonings. She reminded him of the passion he had once felt for mysteries and how satisfying it was seeing them as puzzles. He craved her company and her insights and her smell and her voice. He missed her when he worked cases without her and he found himself thinking of her at the oddest of times. She had become a constant in his life, a silver lining of hope ripping through the darkness. He was halfway into falling in love with her, and that couldn't be good. If he was regaining his capacity to feel, something he had considered long lost in the battlefield, the right thing to do was trying to save his marriage and be a better husband to Rosie. The problem was he didn't want to. It was Phryne that made him feel alive and bursting with passion again. Phryne, with her sense of humor and her laughter and her modern mind. And as hurtful and difficult as it was, he had to admit he had never felt like this with Rosie. Not even before the war. Not even at their best.

 

But it would never work. How could it? They belonged in different worlds. He wasn't as modern as he would have to be for her. He didn't want her to change and she would never change. He wouldn't bear being one more lover and she would never commit to anyone, and now after learning about René he understood why. Whatever arrangement they could come up with would never be enough for him and it would end in inevitable heartache. None of them wanted that, he was sure. He knew she cared about people's feelings deeply, she would never hurt anyone. A heartbreak over Phryne Fisher wasn't something he thought he could easily overcome. But he was losing control. He had kissed her. He had crossed that line already, how many more would he cross?

 

He had to stop seeing her before it was too late. That strange partnership of sorts they had going on needed to end. She wouldn't like it and it would be painful for him at first, but it was the lesser of two evils. She would come to accept it with time, and with time she would also see he had made that decision because it was what was best for both of them.

 

He was about to leave the police station when the phone rang. He wanted to go home and try to get some sleep. He knew he would probably toss and turn all night, it wouldn't be any different than the night before. But he had books at home he could distract himself with while his insomnia tortured him, and since Ms. Fisher had never been at his home at least the place wasn't a trigger for his memory and senses.

 

He didn't want to stay at the station a minute longer, but he knew he should answer the phone. It could be important.

 

He picked the receiver and held it to his ear.

 

“Detective Inspector Jack Robinson speaking”

 

The person that spoke to him sounded distraught and at the verge of tears.

 

“Inspector? It’s Dorothy Williams”

 

His blood froze in his veins and his heart skipped several beats.

 

“Ms. Williams, what’s happened?”

 

“I‘m sorry to bother you at this hour, inspector, I really am. I wouldn’t be calling if this weren’t an urgent matter” she was clearly nervous and upset about something. “Hugh, I mean, Constable Collins, told me I could probably still find you here…”

 

Jack felt like his heart would explode at any minute. It was beating so fast it was hurting his ribs. He couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t think. Ms. Fisher’s assistant was calling him at the police station in such a state, it could only mean one thing…

 

“Ms. Williams, has something happened to Phryne?”

 

“No. I mean, yes. I mean, I’m sorry inspector, I don’t know how to say this...”

 

He was so desperate he was almost shouting when he said:

 

“Ms. Williams, is Phryne alright?”

 

“Someone called at the door earlier this evening. A woman. She claims to be Ms. Jane Fisher”.

 


	2. Chapter 2

> What’s in a name? That which we call a rose by any other word would smell as sweet.
> 
>  
> 
> _Romeo and Juliet (2.2.43-44)_

 

 

_They keep on burying our dead_   
_They keep on planting their bones in the ground_   
_But they won't grow_   
_The sun doesn't help_   
_And all we've got isn't a giant crop of names_   
_And dates_

 

lacrimosa - regina spektor

 

 

The beautiful St. Kilda home looked as welcoming as always when detective inspector Jack Robinson arrived that evening. He had decided to distance himself from its owner not an hour ago. The minute he had been ready to head home and descent into mourning the phone had rung, and a very agitated Ms. Williams had informed him of a strange visit to the Fisher residence: a woman that had dropped unannounced and presented herself to Mr. Butler as Ms. Jane Fisher.

 

Jack didn’t know exactly what awaited him at the other side of the door, but he was sure of one thing: that lady, whoever she was, couldn’t be Ms. Fisher’s sister.

 

He had searched for the case file to take a look at it upon learning about Janet’s disappearance. The 10 year old had gone missing and was presumed to be dead. Her remainings had never been found, but Murdoch Foyle was rotting in jail for murdering her and two others. He’d never confessed to killing them, but he had done it, and he was paying for his atrocities. He would never see the light of day again.

 

Whatever sick joke they were trying to play on Ms. Fisher made the blood boil in his veins. How cruel and twisted could a person be? He was certain someone wanting revenge was behind all this. He thought of Lydia Andrews for a moment- she had been a family friend, she’d known about Janey and why Ms. Fisher had come back to Australia. She knew how much her sister’s death affected Phryne.

 

He knocked on the door and waited. He tried to calm himself down. He was there on police business, nothing more. Someone was claiming to be a legally dead person and it was his duty as an officer of the law to see that order was restored. He wasn’t there to comfort Ms. Fisher. It was an awful thing this that was happening, but she had plenty of shoulders to cry on, and she could find herself some more should the need arise. She had people that cared for her, they would all support her through this. She didn’t need him. She could do without him just like he could do without her. He was there to settle matters with someone that was either unwell or had been sent there to upset Ms. Fisher.

 

“Good evening, inspector” Mr. Butler greeted him. He looked paler than usual and a lot older, as if he had aged suddenly and prematurely.

 

“Good evening, Mr. Butler”.

 

The moment he stepped inside the house, Jack felt how tense the atmosphere was there- you could cut it with a knife. Ms. Fisher’s home was usually so warm, with its doors always open to everyone and anyone in need. He would never admit it, he’d never say it out loud to another soul or even to himself, but he felt at home there. It always smelt like freshly baked scones, and roses from the garden, and something that was rare and unique and unmistakably her. But tonight the air was heavy and you could sense the seriousness of what was going on.

 

Mr. Butler took Jack’s hat and coat and accompanied him to the parlour. Three women were sitting there, two of them he knew and the other he’d never seen before. None of them were Ms. Fisher. He wondered where she might be- strictly out of curiosity, of course, he told himself. Maybe she had gone upstairs. Not that he cared where she was or how she was. He was there to deal with an impostor, nothing more. He wasn’t there for Ms. Fisher. He didn’t have to see her or ask about her. If Ms. Williams and Mr. Butler could provide him with a recount of the facts that would be sufficient.

 

“Inspector Robinson”. Dr. Elizabeth McMillan, impeccably dressed in a three piece suit, looked like she hadn’t slept in days. She stood up the moment she saw him.

 

“I called her” Ms. Williams told Jack. “Right before I called you, inspector. She just got here. She gave Ms. Fisher something for her nerves. She's upstairs now, resting”.

 

Ms. Williams looked the worst of the lot. He knew she was very young, but right now she reminded him of a very frightened child. She was clearly shocked. Her hands were shaking and her eyes were glassy.

 

He directed his attention to the third woman, the one he didn’t know. She was standing near the chimney. He supposed that was the person claiming to be Ms. Jane Fisher. She was small, about Ms. Williams’ height, and very skinny. She resembled a fragile, delicate porcelain doll, with her long blonde hair that was nothing like Ms. Fisher’s arranged in a braid and her big eyes. Her clothes were simple and modest- either they were second hand or she had suffered a considerable weight loss recently because the skirt and blouse were at least a size too big. For some reason he thought of Rosie’s niece playing dress up with her mother’s dresses. The only thing about her attire that seemed to be rather new was a brown cloche hat she was clutching in her hands. Among familiar faces, or maybe because he was convinced she’d been sent there to cause Ms. Fisher a terrible distraught, to Jack she looked out of place.

 

“I don’t believe we have met” Jack addressed the young woman with a serious expression on his face. “Detective Inspector Jack Robinson. City South Police Station”. He offered her a hand out of politeness and she shook it.  

 

She looked him in the eye and with a soft but firm tone she said:

 

“They call me Lucy Stylinson now, but when I was a little girl my name was Jane Fisher. I was kidnapped when I was 10 years old by a woman that told me she was my real mother and that the Fishers had taken me from her when I was a baby”.

 


	3. Chapter 3

 

 

> _That day of tears and mourning,_
> 
> _when from the ashes shall arise,_
> 
> _all humanity to be judged._
> 
> _Spare us by your mercy, Lord,_
> 
> _gentle Lord Jesus,_
> 
> _grant them eternal rest. Amen_
> 
>  
> 
> Requiem Mass in D minor (K. 626) by Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart

 

 

_Hi, I'm Icarus, I'm falling_

_Down on this day of tears and mourning_

_From the dust of earth returning_

_Man for judgment must prepare me_

_Spare, oh God, in mercy spare me_

 

lacrimosa - regina spektor

 

He had had to make a decision in a split second: he could either bring the woman in for questioning at City South Police Station or he could interrogate her there in a much less formal environment. It wasn’t clear whether Ms. Williams had contacted him as a family friend rather than an officer of the law. He supposed it was the latter. He had been over for night caps a couple of times, but that didn't necessary mean that he qualified as a friend. He prefered not to see himself as one: if he saw this as a case and thought of Ms. Fisher as an acquaintance, then parting ways with her would be so much easier.

 

The woman claiming to be Jane Fisher had struck him as someone who was willing to talk and who would be more cooperative if they showed interest in her story. Subjecting her to an interrogation, he had thought, would upset her greatly and it would reveal something he’d rather she remained unaware of: the fact that he did not believe her. A warmer approach would be the smartest choice. It would give him a greater chance of catching her off guard. She would feel safe and relaxed, and then, when she least expected it, she would say or do something that would give her away if she wasn't who she was saying. It would be wise to have Dr. McMillan present too, he had decided, because she knew things about Ms. Fisher’s childhood, about Jane, that he didn't. If Ms. Fisher herself couldn't be there because she had become so hysterical they had had to force-feed her something for her nerves, then Dr. McMillan was the second best option.

 

They were sitting at the parlour. Mr. Butler had offered them all a strong cup of tea, which only Jack and the woman had accepted. Dr. McMillan had politely declined and poured herself a glass of whiskey instead. It had reminded Jack of what he had been doing earlier that night, having a drink at his office while he examined his feelings for Ms. Fisher like a piece of evidence from a especially perplexing murder. Life had laughed at his resolution to step aside  and had pushed him head first into a case of forged identity that held connections to Ms. Fisher’s sister and Ms. Fisher herself. He was thankful he no longer lived under the same roof as Rosie - she wouldn’t have liked his involvement in this matter.

 

“I’ll be in the kitchen should you need anything else,” Mr. Butler said after serving them their tea. “Ms. Williams has gone upstairs to check on Ms. Fisher.”

 

“Thank you, Mr. Butler,” Dr. McMillan said.

 

Jack noticed the blonde woman was eyeing the tray of scones Mr. Butler had left with the tea, but she didn’t help herself. She was very thin, almost underweight. Jack wondered if she ate three meals a day, or if she ever ate at all on a regular basis. Financial distress would make a solid motive for wanting to pass as the long-lost sister of a wealthy socialite. Murdoch Foyle’s atrocities had been all over the newspapers fairly recently because he had been denied probation, and if Jack recalled correctly those articles had also provided information about the victims and the role of the Honourable Phryne Fisher in making sure their murderer remained behind bars. Ms. Fisher’s clothes and jewelry, the house in St. Kilda, the Hispano-Suiza, all those things belonged in a world that was separated from the one Jack inhabited, and the same could no doubt be said about this woman. Although he had never wished to be a part of it - something that didn’t sit well with Rosie- he understood that some people would go to any lengths to do so. He had to take this in consideration - it could be Ms. Fisher’s fortune that this woman was after.

 

“You can have one, dear.” Dr. McMillan encouraged her to help herself to a scone. “Please, don’t be shy. Mr. Butler brought them out to eat, not stay there on the plate looking delicious.”

 

“Ms. Stylinson,” Jack begun “you said before that Mr. and Mrs. Fisher stole you from your birth mother when you were a baby, and that this woman took you back from them when you were 10 years old.”

 

“My sister and I had sneaked away to see the Farretts Circus. We did it every year.” Jack looked at Dr. McMillan, who tilted her head barely so in a way that told him that what Ms. Stylinson was recalling made sense with things Ms. Fisher had probably shared with her about her childhood in Collingwood. “My sister was watching the show when I saw a butterfly. I loved them back then, I thought they were so pretty. I followed it and wandered off. And then I ran into this lady. She looked familiar to me. She asked me if I was lost and I told her I thought so, and she offered to help me. But she didn’t take me back to where the circus was.”

 

Her voice was soft and sweet, almost like a child’s. She spoke quietly and slowly but in full sentences, no hesitations or pauses. Jack thought that it could be an indication that the story had been previously rehearsed.

 

“Where did she take you?” he asked.

 

“It was a house. A small one, like ours. She was poor, too, but not like us. I went with her because she told me she had food, and she asked me if I wanted some. And I said yes, because I hadn’t eaten anything since lunch the day before. We were so poor back then, we were lucky if we had a meal a day. I was so hungry my stomach hurt, and she seemed like a nice person. I asked her if we could go and find my sister so she could get some food, too. Whatever food my sister could steal, if it wasn’t enough for the two of us she always gave it to me. I had eaten some bread for lunch the day before, but my sister hadn’t. She hadn’t eaten anything since dinner two nights ago.”

 

He cast another look at Dr. McMillan, and she nodded her head slowly again. Jack knew the Fishers had not always had money, he just hadn't imagined how bad it had been for them. He tried not to think about a young Phryne Fisher growing up with nothing, skipping meals and stealing food so her little sister could be fed. He hadn't had much as a child- his parents had been working class- but he and his siblings had never wanted for food. He had always had breakfast, he had never gone to bed on an empty stomach. If the Fishers hadn't had enough to make sure their children were fed, then what else had Phryne and her sister been deprived of in their childhood? Winter clothes? Shoes? He could not let himself dwell on those thoughts.

 

“The woman told me she’d go get my sister, and she left me alone in the house. It was late at night when she came back. She didn’t have my sister with her, and when I asked where she was she told me I wouldn’t see my sister or the Fishers anymore.”

 

Jack noticed she never referred to Phryne by name, but he didn’t comment on this. He also thought she was nothing like other people he had interviewed about traumatic experiences - and as a policeman he had sat in front of dozens of people that had been kidnapped, tortured or assaulted, sometimes all three of them combined. She didn’t show any emotion as she talked. There wasn’t a particular expression on her face, she was just sitting there staring into space as she recited the words. He knew it was possible for some people to separate themselves from the trauma and talk about it like it meant nothing. It wasn’t unheard of.  

 

“And then what happened?” he asked.

 

“I got scared. I started to cry. I told her I wanted to leave. She told me that that girl she had seen me with wasn’t my sister and that the Fishers weren’t my parents. I remember I was crying so much I could barely breathe. She tried to comfort me, she told me everything would be alright because she was my real mother and she loved me and she would take good care of me. I wasn’t having any of it, though. I was so hysterical, I exhausted myself from crying. When I woke up the following morning I started crying again, pleading with her to let me go home. It went like that for days - she would sit there and watch me patiently as I cried until my throat went dry and my voice hoarse.She was never violent to me. I had seen my father lock my sister in a cupboard for hours if she spoke out of place, let alone cry. I had seen him hit her and choke her, too.”

 

“Yes, Phryne’s father was always very violent with her when she was a child,” Dr. McMillan agreed.

 

Jack felt the air being knocked out of his lungs. For ten whole seconds he couldn’t breathe or think or feel anything other than the most intoxicating mixture of anger and sadness. No matter how rebellious or insolent a child may be, one could not hit them or lock them in a cupboard or harm them in any way. It was outrageous. No one deserved to be treated like an unwanted dog.

 

Ms. Stylinson’s voice brought him out of the dark place his mind had gone to and back to the present.

 

“This woman only tried to comfort me, she seemed genuinely concerned about me. After a couple of days, I calmed down and I accepted some food. I literally could not cry any more, I think. The woman told me she was my real mother, that she had had me with a very bad, very mean man that liked to drink and play cards. I knew what she was talking about - the only father I’ve ever known was like that.”.

 

Dr. McMillan snorted.

 

“Mr. Fisher sure does like to gamble”

 

“She told me I was a week old when Mr. Fisher showed with knife one night. The man she’d had me with owed him lots of money, and Mr. Fisher wanted him to pay his debts or he’d slit his throat, and then hers.” She made a pause and took a sip of her tea. Jack had completely forgotten Mr. Butler had served them tea, so concentrated he had been observing Ms. Stylinson’s every move and the lax expression on her face. His tea must have gone cold, surely.

 

“Was this family’s last name Stylinson?” Jack asked.

 

“No. Stylinson was my husband’s last name. I am a widow. He passed away over a year ago. Influenza.”

 

Dr. McMillan offered her a sad, sympathetic smile.

 

“What did she tell you happened on the night Mr. Fischer showed up and threatened them with a knife?”

 

“Her husband told Mr. Fisher that he had no money, that he needed more time. Mr. Fisher wasn’t having any of it and he was about to hurt him with the knife when he heard a baby crying in the other room. She told me I was that baby, her Lucy. Mr. Fisher told him his wife had recently lost a baby. A girl. They had woken up one morning and found the baby had died in her sleep. His wife was unbearably depressed, he told him. So he made him an offer: he’d forget about the debt if he gave him the baby.”

 

“So this woman that took you and claimed to be your mother told you her husband had given their child away to Mr. Fisher so he would forget about the debt.”

 

“She told me she tried to stop her husband, but he pushed her and beat her and knocked her unconscious. Mr. Fisher had taken me with him when she woke up. She told me she was weak back then and that she didn’t have the strength to fight her abusive husband. I knew women like that - Margaret Fisher was like that. But then this woman’s husband died - too much alcohol, a sick liver. That’s when she began to look for me. She found where the Fishers lived in Collingwood and started to follow me around. She saw I spent a lot of time wandering the streets with my sister, that I was uncared for. She saw her chance when I ran into her that day and took it: she got me back home.”

 

“Did you believe her?” Dr. McMillan asked the question before Jack could.

 

“The Mr. Fisher I knew was the violent man she was describing. She pointed out I looked nothing like my sister or my mother, asked her if I’d never wondered why. I had, I’d always wondered why my sister and my mother looked so alike whereas I looked and felt so different compared to them.”.

 

Jack wouldn’t admit so, at least not aloud, but it was true that the blonde woman sitting in front of him looked nothing like Ms. Fisher. He would have never thought the two of them were related. Nothing about Ms. Stylinson had much to do with the exquisite beauty Phryne Fisher possessed - the bewitching smile, the eyes as bright as jewels, the lustrous hair as black as a raven feathers. This woman was just ordinary. Ms Fisher- another thing he would never admit aloud- was unique and extraordinary. One of a kind. He knew sometimes siblings took each after one parent, but two people biologically related couldn’t be so different.

 

“And this woman looked so much like me,” Ms. Stylinson went on. ”We had the same hair, the same eyes. I had never seen myself in my sister or in my mother. And this woman was so gentle, and she didn’t yell at me. She seemed to care for me. I was a very scared child back then. I wasn’t well cared for. I came from an abusive home. I stayed with her because she made me feel loved and safe, and I had never felt that way with a parent before. The only person that had ever made me feel like that had been my sister, and she usually got into lots of trouble for standing up for me. She skipped meals so I could eat, she got locked away in a cupboard for defending me more often than not. I didn’t want to be a burden to her. This woman wanted me - she wanted to be my mother. She said she _was_ my mother. So I stayed. I hadn’t had a chance to live in a healthy home as Jane Fisher, so I became Lucy. We moved around, she worked a lot and really hard, and I was happy as Lucy. I had food, I had clothes, I had a loving parent that wanted to raise me and that put me before anyone or anything else. Margaret Fisher had never done that for me and my sister. She always put her abusive husband first.”

 

“Why did you come here tonight, Ms. Stylinson?” Jack asked.

 

“I read about that awful man, Murdoch Foyle, and those little girls he killed.” For the first time Jack heard emotion in her voice. It was clear that what Murdoch Foyle had done repulsed her. “They said they'd never found the bodies but they listed Jane Fischer as one of his victims. And they quoted my sister, what she'd said when he was denied parole: that she would have traded places with me, that the memory of the day I'd gone missing never was far from her mind. I don't want her to live feeling guilty. I stayed with that woman because in the end she convinced me that it was best, that I was hers. I wasn't murdered like they thought all these years. I was raised by a working class woman, I worked as a maid for some time, I fell in love with someone that was wonderful and good to me and we married. It was brief and when I lost him I was sad, but it was love like no other I’ve known. I've had a good life. I am working class and I grew up in an abusive household, but after that woman rescued me I had a good, decent life. I feel guilty that I escaped the abuse while she didn’t. I want her to know that I’ve been safe all these years. I didn’t come back because I didn’t want to, because I saw a chance at a better life. I feel so very sorry she had to stay with the Fishers. I wish someone had rescued her too.”

 

This was, by far, worse than Jack had thought. If this woman wasn’t after Ms. Fisher’s money, then it left him with two options. The first one was that someone had sent her to get revenge on Ms. Fisher‘s by making her believe her sister had willingly stayed away from her all those years while she fought guilt and ghosts and made herself sick with mortification. The second one -and the least likely to be true, in his opinion- was that that woman was actually Jane Fisher and that she had stayed away willingly all those years. Either way this would break Ms. Fisher’s heart.

 

“You have no idea the hell Phryne went through after you went missing…” Dr. McMillan started. Jack could tell she was thinking the same as he was: what this woman was saying -regardless of whether she actually was the girl Ms. Fisher had adored as her little sister- would destroy her.

 

Jack went to interrupt Ms. Fisher’s best friend before her emotions got the best of her. He could tell there were tears in the doctor’s eyes, and he guessed they were caused by anger. He was about to say something when Ms. Williams made her presence known at the parlour.

 

“I’m very sorry, Miss, Inspector, Dr. McMillan.” She politely nodded her head at each one of them.

 

“Is something the matter, Dot? Is Phryne alright?” Dr. McMillan asked, genuine worry for her friend written all over her face.

 

“She is awake, Dr. McMillan.” Then, she looked at Jack nervously. “I came downstairs because she’s asked to see the Inspector.”


	4. Chapter 4

> _Mamihlapinatapai_ allegedly refers to "a look shared by two people, each wishing that the other would initiate something that they both desire but which neither wants to begin." A slightly different interpretation of the meaning also exists: "It is that look across the table when two people are sharing an unspoken but private moment. When each knows the other understands and is in agreement with what is being expressed. An expressive and meaningful silence."

 

  
  
  


_ Scarecrow and Fungus, _

_ They ran through a stoplight _

_ But it didn't matter  _

_ 'Cause no one was hurt. _

_ Scarecrow and Fungus, _

_ They ran through a stoplight _

_ But it didn't matter  _

_ 'Cause they were on foot _

 

scarecrow & fungus - regina spektor

  
  
  


She knew she was beautiful and that men desired her. She knew how to get -and hold- their attention, and she also knew how to let them down easy when they started to bore her. Some became her lovers before this happened, others only made her lose her patience (and not a single piece of clothing). She didn’t usually dwell on those that disappointed her, and she didn’t get attached to those that satisfied her. She liked innovation and variety, and she had a tendency to grow tired of a man’s ways the moment the last wave of pleasure washed over her. Sex, to her, was only a means to an end: physical pleasure. And she took pleasure in anticipation - where he would touch her, how he would touch her, what she could learn from him. Once a man became in any way predictable -and that happened quickly for her-, she lost all interest. Sometimes her enthusiasm died before the night was through. They always wanted more, of course - there were a million layers to her and no one had ever peeled them all off. She chose carefully what she showed and to whom, and as a result all of her lovers knew very little about her. Society judged her for how much she enjoyed opening her legs for different men, called her a tramp and a whore and only God knew what else. Only she didn’t spread her legs  _ for them _ , she did it  _ for herself _ . She never did anything for anyone but herself. No one owned her, no one controlled her. She had learned early on that if she didn’t look out for herself, then no one else would. Men were used to assuming they could cage a woman under the claim that they loved her - that was why loveless intercouse was her preferred way of interaction with the opposite sex. 

 

Detective Inspector Jack Robinson, the policeman she had become acquainted with upon arriving to Melbourne, fell under the category of men she had to beware of. He was attractive, a match to her wit, and challenged her on an intellectual level. He wasn't the first of his kind, of course - she’d met other men like that. She had slept with most of them, too, and she hadn't given those that slipped away a second thought. But he seemed to be the exception to the rule. She thought about him constantly, whether they were working a case together or not, and that was maddening. She didn’t like that. She didn’t think constantly about anyone but herself. She touched herself thinking of him more often than not, she fantasized about him if the man inside her wasn't living up to her expectations (the case more often than not lately, none of them lived up to her expectations). She woke up in the middle of the night from dreams of him, wet with arousal, and her heart beating out of control. Allowing a man to take up so much space on her mind wasn’t healthy. In fact, it bordered on obsession. 

 

She felt like she was out of control, and she hated that. No one should have so much power over her, but he had it. He didn’t even know it. He hadn’t done anything to obtain it: she was willingly and silently giving it to him. She  _ had _ to let go, she kept telling herself that. But she couldn’t. Sometimes she suspected that she didn’t want to. He was someone she couldn’t have at the moment, would probably never have. Inspector Robinson was married and he definitely wasn’t the type of man that would have an affair, even if things at home weren’t exactly going well. She understood and respected that. They belonged in different worlds -not that she cared, but he did-, they saw life through different perspectives - again, she didn’t care, he did. She had long ago given up on seducing him - since all of her attempts would be fruitless, her efforts would be better spent on other men. She still took as many lovers as she could, of course, but it wasn’t enough to get him out of her mind. 

 

Ending this partnership of sorts they had going on was not an option for her. They were good at solving murders together and she wasn’t going to give that up. She had to be able to control herself and her feelings and thoughts and fantasies. She was a grown woman. She was modern and liberal and open-minded, and these sorts of things -obsessing over a man- just did not happen to someone like her. She wasn’t going to let something good go to waste because a man she wanted to sleep with didn’t have the same intentions toward her. That would be childish and immature. She took rejection well, she didn’t sulk, she didn’t hold grudges, she wasn’t bitter. She never had to move on from anyone or anything because she didn’t get attached to begin with. What was it about Jack Robinson, then? Why did he affect her so much?

 

Well, to be fair, mixed signals were there, and those he was to be held accountable for. One day he would put distance between them, the other he’d quote Shakespeare to her. Age wouldn’t wither her? Her charms were so varied she never bore him? She made him desire her the more he saw of her? He had been jealous of Lin. He had tried to mask it but he hadn’t fooled her. What was he playing at? He couldn’t act all professional and cold most of the time and then hint that he wanted her. He couldn’t set boundaries, build a wall between them so she wouldn’t get closer and then passionately kiss her until they both were out of breath, slightly lightheaded and shaking. It was confusing. He had to make up his mind. 

 

She would tell him that, yes. He had to make up his mind. She wouldn’t tell him about the dreams and the fantasies, of course. She would not show weakness, she would hate to look desperate or obsessed. (She would never admit, not even to herself, that sometimes late at night and for a fraction of a second, he made her feel both). She wanted him and she knew he wanted her as well. She could sense it, almost taste it. The way he had looked at her across the table right before he’d kissed her - no one had ever looked at her like that. He couldn’t do that to her, he couldn’t confuse her like that. It was obvious that they both needed to get the other out of their system. She wasn’t going to beg: he hadn’t been responsive to her flirting when they had first met, and in very subtle ways he had made pretty clear that he was married and noble and loyal and whatnot. She wasn’t going to insist. If he wanted her, he would have to go find her and kiss her without hiding behind stupid excuses. She wasn’t one for games that didn’t involve pleasure- they weren't fun, but rather, they were tiring. Next time she saw him she would tell him all of that. Enough was enough. She was always upfront: she didn’t deserve the mixed signals and she would not stand them.

 

She had been thinking about him and how frustrated he made her and how much she needed to be fucked senseless, when a knock on the front door of her house distracted her. She let Mr. Butler take it. Maybe it was Jack, she had thought. Maybe someone had dropped dead in mysterious circumstances and he couldn’t figure it out on his own so he was there to tell her he needed her services as a private lady detective. She hoped it was Jack, so she could tell him what she had been thinking about those mixed signals and how he was confusing her. It would be good to let it out. 

 

She had been almost on her feet and ready to face him when a very pale-looking Mr. Butler had shown up at the parlour to inform her there was a woman claiming to be Ms. Jane Fischer that wished to speak to her.

 

She didn’t remember in much detail what had happened after that. She did remember she had felt weak at the knees and that for a moment she could have sworn her heart had disappeared because she couldn’t feel it beating. She couldn’t feel anything. She remembered the room had started to spin around her, that Dot had helped her sit down, that Mr. Butler had stayed standing there awaiting instructions: was he to let this person inside the house? She had nodded, or maybe she hadn’t, she couldn’t remember that either. All of a sudden there was a woman there, hugging a body that was hers and that she inhabited but that didn’t feel like hers at all, because she didn’t feel like she was there at all. And this woman was talking and telling her how sorry she was she had never come back, and something about a newspaper article… She couldn’t quite understand what she was saying: it all had sounded like a foreign language to her. She had felt disconnected from it all: her house and the people in it and her limbs and her soul and her mind. This person kept talking and talking, to her and to Dot and to Mr. Butler. But she couldn’t make out what was happening. 

 

And then she had collapsed. She hadn’t lost consciousness, quite the contrary: she had never felt so much at the same time, the intensity of it all ripping through her from the inside and tearing her in half. The only thing she had been able to hear had been her heart pounding in her ears: it had gone back to its rightful place in her chest abruptly and started to beat out of control, as if it had wanted to make up for the time it had stopped working. She had begun to cry hysterically, head between her knees because the room was spinning so fast she had felt like vomiting, hands to her head and pulling at her own hair because she had needed to grab onto something real. Mr. Butler had had to take the woman to the kitchen and then Mac was there pleading with her not to keep scratching her arms because her nails were already drawing blood. Mac had also forced her to drink something. And then the world had gone black. She had fallen down the rabbit hole.

 

When she woke up she was lying on her bed. Dot was sitting beside her, tending to the wounds she had inflicted upon her own flesh. They stung - they were still fresh. They were evidence that it hadn't been a dream, and she hadn't had a nightmare. It had actually happened: a strange woman had knocked on the door and had told her to her face that she was her sister and that she was sorry she hadn't gone back to her sooner.

 

“Please don't move, Ms. Fisher,” Dot asked her, her voice soft and soothing. Darling Dot, God bless her. She was always looking after her. “I don't want the wounds to sting more than they should.”

 

“Where is she?” Phryne noticed her voice was hoarse from all the crying. Her throat hurt like hell. She sounded desperate. She felt desperate. “That woman. Where is she?”

 

“She is downstairs, speaking to Inspector Robinson and Dr. McMillan.” Dot looked as if she were making an effort not to break down in tears. 

 

“I want to see the inspector,” Phryne told her, the words leaving her mouth on their own accord before she had time to process what she was saying. “Please go downstairs and ask him to come up. I need to speak to him.”

 

The speech about deciding whether they should stay platonic or become friends that occasionally kissed on the mouth which she had planned for the next time she saw Jack would have to wait. Exactly until when, she didn't know. At that very moment she couldn't be sure about absolutely anything.


	5. Chapter 5

 

 

> **ambiguous**
> 
> [am- **big** -yoo- _uh_ s]
> 
>  
> 
> **adjective**
> 
> 1.
> 
> open to or having several possible meanings or interpretations; equivocal:
> 
> _an ambiguous answer._
> 
> 2.
> 
> _Linguistics._ (of an expression) exhibiting constructional homonymity; having two or more structural descriptions, as the sequence _Flying planes can be dangerous._
> 
> 3.
> 
> of doubtful or uncertain nature; difficult to comprehend, distinguish, or classify:
> 
> _a rock of ambiguous character._
> 
> 4.
> 
> lacking clearness or definiteness; obscure; indistinct:
> 
> _an ambiguous shape; an ambiguous future._

 

  
  


_Hey light fixture, you were much too bright._

_Oh won’t you stay with me through the night?_

_Just grab a pillow tight_

_And wait for the dizziness to pass._

 

bobbing for apples - regina spektor

 

She heard the sound of footsteps muffled by the carpeted hall floor. Unintelligible talking slipped under the closed door. One of the voices was sweet, and soft, and a little high pitched- that was Dot’s. The other was deep, and she easily recognized it as Jack’s. She wished- and she immediately regretted that she did- that his voice were something tangible she could hold onto.

 

She felt disconnected from everything. It was as if the moment that woman had entered her house she had been ripped from her body and mind and made stand by the side to watch like an outsider. A tragic play had begun to unravel before her eyes, and her life and the people in it were the stage and characters. Like someone observing the rehearsal behind the red velvet curtains, she saw and heard everything but did not have the power to interrupt. She hadn't felt powerless since René all those years ago. The comparison made her want to be sick.

 

She had an acid sensation going up and down her tightened throat, and her stomach was in knots. Jack and Dot were still conversing right outside her bedroom, but she couldn't make out the words. She had asked to see him and he sure would end his talk with Dot and enter her bedroom any time now.

 

Earlier that night she had been frustrated with him, infuriated even. She had decided that the next time she saw him she would tell him he had to make up his mind once and for all and stop messing with hers, that she could perfectly have a professional relationship with him with no other intentions on her part whatsoever but that she could not stand mixed signals and ambiguity. All of that was forgotten in the back of her mind at the moment. Now she wanted to talk to him for very different reasons.

 

Since starting her private detective business in Melbourne, their paths had crossed in several cases. She had once told Mac over drinks that sometimes she found herself wishing someone would steal something or drop dead so she could see him. Alcohol was to blame for that distasteful joke, of course. A very, very cruel joke that one had been. But Mac’s had been worse (Mac’s sense of humor was always crueler): she had confessed Phryne she thought she had a payed crime business on the side and that she was arranging to have all those people killed so hers and the inspector's paths would cross. They had laughed, drank some more, and then laughed some more. She had to agree with Mac on one thing though: she did look forward to working with Jack, and when a case was over she could hardly wait for the next one.

 

She had come to think of him as her partner, and she secretly liked to believe he thought the same about her. Together they solved mysteries others couldn't figure out, maybe because their minds fit so well, and they came up with theories and considered possibilities no other pair would. It was what they did best.

 

Now she needed him to help her solve this, to figure out who that woman was and if anything she was saying came close to resembling the truth. She didn't care that she had been mad at him hours before- those unsatisfied desires seemed like something from another life now. Judging by the scratches she had in her arms that were all her own doing, her sanity was at stake. She had reacted like some veteran soldiers did when they experienced war flashbacks. She had seen them, screaming and hurting themselves, lost in their own private hells all over again.

 

She knew hell back and forth, she had been in its different circles several times. Her childhood had been nothing short from horrible: poverty, hunger, a good-for-nothing, violent, drunken father that hit her around and locked her in a cupboard for hours when she spoke out of place. After her sister went missing, her father started to drink so much he couldn't stay on his feet long enough to beat her, but the pain she had to go through was worse, sharper than anything she had ever felt before as a result of one of his beatings, for it was emotional and not physical. She learned then that emotional pain does more harm than physical pain.

 

The years serving as a nurse in the war hadn't been better, and then her life in France- as fun and bohemian and artistic as it had been at the beginning- had ended with the realization that if one isn't too careful then history can repeat itself. She wasn't going to follow in her mother's steps. She hadn't been born to be any man’s punching bag.

 

After escaping from René she had made a promise to herself not to let anyone else drag her down. René and her father had hurt her, they had made her life miserable, but they hadn't drowned her spirit: she had resurfaced stronger. The only hellish place that affected her when revisited was the one Murdoch Foyle had created the day he had taken her Janey. That day was never far from her mind. She chose to live life in a fashion that suggested otherwise, perhaps, that made her come across as a frivolous and shallow socialité. She wasn't any of that, and she didn't owe anyone proof of it. She was the only one who knew what it was like to be under her skin. And that night she had hated it so much that something inside of her had snapped and made her try to escape. She had furiously scratched her own skin because she had not wanted to be under it anymore. Only her sister’s unsolved disappearance could make her not want to be herself and lose control like that.

 

She heard the door open and saw Dot step into the room. Oh, darling Dot, what a clever, sweet girl! She gave herself less credit than she deserved, Phryne thought. She had known exactly what to do and called Mac and Jack, the only two people Phryne wanted there that night. She appreciated Dot, loved her even, but she was innocent and young, and Phryne did not want her to see her like this. Dot had been brave enough to deal with her in such a state until Mac had arrived and sedated her, and then she had tended to the wounds in her arms. Phryne did not wish for the girl to go through more of this ordeal. Maybe right now she was the one not giving Dot the credit she deserved, but Phryne supposed it was in her nature to protect those she loved, and out of all of them Dot was the one that hadn't seen or heard as many horrors as the rest. One thing was to train her to be a private detective’s assistant, but this did not have to do with that. For tonight, Dot could sit this one out.

 

“Excuse me, Miss.” Dot's soft voice reached her ears. Phryne looked up- she had been curled into a ball, knees to her chest and her head buried in a pillow. “I have gone downstairs, like you asked me, and fetched the inspector for you, Miss. He is here.”

 

“Please let him in, Dot.” The girl nodded. “Dot” Phryne called.

 

“Yes, Miss?”

 

“You can go to bed. It's late and you've been up since very early this morning. You must be tired.”

 

“Oh, no, Miss! Mr. Butler and I will stay up in case you need anything. Dr. McMillan asked me to tell you she will be staying in the guest bedroom tonight, if that's alright.” Phryne nodded again. She knew she would need someone to talk to the following morning, and who better for that than her best friend. God bless Mac!

 

“Thank you, Dot. I insist you go to bed. And Mr. Butler, too.”

 

Phryne did not want to ask about the woman. She supposed Mac or Jack had seen her off. Jack, who still was patiently waiting in the hall outside of her bedroom,would surely tell her in a moment.

 

“I'll stay up a little bit longer just in case you need anything, Miss.”

 

She smiled at her warmly. What a wonderful, beautiful person this girl was. She was so lucky to have found her. Dot had the habit to constantly thank her for the chance she had given her- Phryne hoped she knew just how thankful for her she was herself.

 

“I'll see the Inspector now, Dot.”

 

She had always imagined Jack visiting her boudoir under very different circumstances. All the scenarios in her head involved less clothing, and usually her arms were scratched _afterwards_ \- his arms and back and other parts of his body ended up with scratches to match her own as well (and bite marks, too). The reason why he was crossing her bedroom's threshold that night had nothing to do with a sex and pleasure. A woman had turned up claiming to be her sister, someone that had been declared legally dead a long time ago.

 

He was wearing his regular work clothes- a dark suit and a blue tie. He looked tired. Phryne wondered what she must look like to him, with wrinkles all over her black trousers and her sleeveless blouse made of silk. The scratches on her arms were visible, the dry blood stained her alabaster skin. He had seen her hurt, or almost hurt, before. But this was self-inflicted harm. She had done this to herself. She did not know why it seemed to matter very little to her- maybe it had to do with what Mac had given her to calm her, maybe she felt comfortable enough with him to show vulnerability- but she did not try to cover her arms.

 

“Hello, Jack.” She could hear the tiredness in her own voice.

 

He nodded his head to her.

 

“Miss Fisher.”

 

She felt frustrated once again all of a sudden. How many times did she have to tell people to call her by her name before any of them dropped the formalities and just did that? Was it that hard to understand that she preferred to be called by her name? She had asked Dot, and Mr. Butler, and Cec and Bert, but all of them refused to do it and called her Ms. Fisher instead. She did not like it but she understood if they felt uncomfortable with calling her Phryne- they worked for her, they were not used to their employers befriending them. But what was Jack's excuse? She had already told him, after the second murder case they had worked together, that he could call her Phryne. He wasn't his employee and she did not take orders from him. They were equals. She started calling him Jack after he had given her permission to do so, and on that same conversation she had told him he could call her Phryne. But he never did. It was always Ms. Fisher this and Ms. Fisher that. He was avoiding taking things to a more personal level, she supposed, making sure they kept a certain distance between them. But oh no, he hadn't had a problem kissing Ms. Fisher at the restaurant to distract her from blowing up their cover, had he? That wasn't crossing a line, but God forbid he called her by her name!

 

“Phryne.” she corrected him.

 

He looked at her, confused.

 

“I beg your pardon?”

 

“Phryne” she repeated. “That is my name, you know. You can call me that. Remember that I told you so?” She was speaking calmly but her voice sounded a lot firmer than when she had been talking to Dot before. Maybe the effect of what Mac had given her was starting to wear off. “The first time you came over to my house and we had a night caps.”

 

“Yes, I remember.” He still looked puzzled.

 

“Then call me Phryne, please.” She didn't wait for his reply. She gestured to the chair where she usually sat to do her hair and makeup up every morning, and he sat there. “Thank you for coming after Dot telephoned you. I know it is late and…”

 

He cut her off.

 

“You don't have to thank me. I drove here the minute she told me what was going on. A person is claiming to be someone that went missing a long time ago, and identity theft is a very serious offense.”

 

“So you don't think she's Janey?”

 

The knots in Phryne's stomach and throat were tighter than ever and she had that feeling of anxiety again that was making her want to be sick. She wanted to hear Jack's opinion more than anything in the world, but at the same time she dreaded hearing it because she didn't know what she wanted him to believe. She didn't know what she believed in herself. He had heard a more detailed story than she had, he wasn't emotionally involved in the case and he was a good judge of character. Whatever he told her she would take seriously, and it could be as biasing for her as her own wish for her sister to be alive and well was. That would have been the natural thing for her to want, right? She was supposed to want that stranger to be telling the truth, for it would mean Murdoch Foyle hadn't killed her Janey.

 

Then why was she somewhat relieved to hear Jack call this an identity theft case? Maybe because it was easier to blame her sister's disappearance on a monster than to accept she had willingly chosen to stay with her captor? That was what that woman had said, right? That she was sorry she hadn't gone back to her sooner, that she was sorry she had let her believe that she was dead because she had not wanted to go back to Collingwood, to the Fishers, and had chosen to stay with the woman that took her instead. Janey had often spoken about dreams she had of being adopted, and she had constantly made up stories in her head about them being taken in by a new family. She had thought them to be just that, dreams and fantasies that helped her distract herself from the terrible life they had. But what if someone had lied to Janey and convinced her to go with them willingly and leave them all behind? Was it that worse, more hurtful than her sister being kidnapped and killed, and then buried in some unknown, unmarked grave?

 

No. Phryne would always want her Janey to be well and alive. Whatever the reasons she had had to stay away, she would understand and accept them. Her fears and uncertainties were rooted somewhere else. She already lived with a broken heart and her sister's return from the dead would not break it into even littler pieces. If this woman was Janey, she would deal with it. If this woman was an impostor, then she would find out what she wanted. She knew there were no absoluteness, ever, but with this she wanted proof to point to one thing or the other. It was the mere possibility of there being a tiny ray of hope one second and none the other that she found unbearable. She couldn't deal with mixed signals in the way she had been doing with her and Jack's relationship. Not with this.

 

Jack's answer to her question came, at last.

 

“I think this woman’s story is interesting, to say the least. It's got as many plot holes as it's got details about your childhood in Collingwood that Dr. McMillan says match what you have told her about it.”

 

There it was. An ambiguous answer to a very direct question. He wasn't sure that woman was Janey, he was not going to say she wasn't. It was the last thing Phryne needed right now, really. But was there something else to be expected from him, the man that approached everything that had to do with her with cautiousness and in halves?

 

She was about to say something- she wasn't sure what, she just knew she had her mouth open and her tongue ready- when he went on talking:

 

“But in my opinion such details can be easily obtained, and a story like hers can be learned from memory and rehearsed like a part in a play. For several reasons I am inclined to think that that woman is not your sister. Her claiming that she is, however, calls for an investigation that I believe you’ll want to join, whether to unmask this person I think to be an impostor or to prove me wrong. What I ask of you,” he stuttered a little before finally calling her by her first name “Phryne, is that you remain from involving yourself personally with her until this investigation is through.”

 

“What do you mean by that?” she asked him, although she knew very well what Jack meant. He could not think she was stupid enough to take that woman in simply because she said she was her sister, right? She’d like to think that, by now, he'd give her a lot more credit than that. It was one thing to give a young girl a job or to become an orphan's guardian- this wasn't the case. “I don't know who this woman is, and I will not believe she is my sister simply because she says she is. Right now, to me, she is nothing but a stranger. In fact, you know more about her than I do since you have actually talked to her.”

 

She was looking at him expectantly, and he was looking at her with an expression showing on his face that clearly indicated that this was a point in their conversation that he had been dreading.

 

“Jack, whatever she said, I can take it.” She realized he was trying very hard not to look at her arms and what she had done to them. “I’m not going to have another nervous breakdown.” She didn’t think she had any strength left in her to shed a tear. She was just so tired, physically and emotionally.

 

“She said your childhood in Collingwood was difficult…”

 

“That’s an understatement.”

 

“... And that the day she went missing she wandered off and ran into a woman that took her under false pretenses. She told her she’d give her food, and then let her alone in her house, supposedly to go looking for you near the circus’ tent so she could get you some food as well. But the woman wouldn’t let her go home. She told her she was her real mother and that the Fishers were bad people that had taken her from her.”

 

“And she believed her.”

 

It wasn’t a question. Janey had been a child with an active imagination that usually went on and on about how she hoped that one day the queen of the fairies would grant her her wish of being rescued from the life they had in Collingwood. Long-lost relatives that came to take her and Phryne away from their drunken, violent father had been a regular theme in Janey’s fantasies. Sometimes they were about a princess and a prince from a land far away that had arrived in Collingwood looking for the daughters an ogre had stolen from them. Other times, the loving parents were a couple of good pirates and the bad pirates had stolen their most important treasures: their baby girls. Phryne could see Janey believing anyone that told her the Fishers were bad people that had taken her away from her real family, and she told Jack all of this.

 

“I would like you to hear the whole story directly from her.” Jack said. “Before she left, she wrote down the address and telephone number of the guest house she’s staying at.” He gave her a piece of paper that was neatly folded by the middle.

 

She felt herself became terribly anxious all of a sudden, and the acid sensation burned her throat. It tasted like bile on her tongue, and she wondered if she’d be physically able to wait until Jack left to go to the toilet and empty the contents of her stomach. Could this be truth? Was this woman Janey? How would she face her? What questions would she ask? What answers would she get?

 

“Will you come with me?” she asked him.

 

“Of course I will.”

 

She gave him a sad smile.

 

“Thank you.”

 

“We can pay her a visit tomorrow if you think that’s alright.”

 

She nodded her head in agreement.

 

He got up.

 

“I think you should rest now.”

 

She was feeling more tired than ever but was dreading falling asleep. She did not want to have nightmares, she didn’t want to be left alone with her own thoughts and ghosts and shadows.She wasn’t looking forward to the rest of the night, she wasn’t even sure she was looking forward to the immediate future at all, and that was so very unlike her- she was always looking forward to the future, to her next great adventure.

 

“I don’t think I want to be alone tonight.”

 

He looked at her with a puzzled expression on his face. She felt like laughing at him bitterly for thinking she would have the cheek to ask him to stay the night and sleep with her on a moment like this. This kind of thing, these reactions that he showed to things she did or say and that he misinterpreted, had her questioning if he really knew her at all. She chose to ignore his expression and do as if she hadn’t noticed it, and kept on talking:

 

“If I know Mac, and I do, she will be downstairs at the parlour having a glass of whisky. Could you ask her to come upstairs and see me on your way out?”

 

She saw relief shine in his eyes and heard it in his voice when he spoke:

 

“Yes, of course.”

 

“And Jack,” she called as he was headed for the door, making him turn on his heel. “You’re not being disrespectful by calling me by my first name, just like I don’t mean any disrespect when I call you by yours. And I don’t think you are being unfaithful to your wife by calling another woman by her first name, either.”

 

He nodded his head politely, but he didn’t say anything. She was expecting what he gave her: silence. She didn’t even know why she had said that, why she had brought his wife up. It wasn’t her place to make any comments on his marriage or anything about his private life. She was tired, she was confused and had a lot going on in her head, so much that nothing was making sense anymore- she’d blame it on that.

 

“Good night, Phryne.”

 

“Good night, Jack.”

 

He closed the door behind him. She grabbed onto her pillow and tried to breath in and out a couple of times while she waited for Mac to go upstairs and keep her company until exhaustion got the best of her and she drifted off to sleep or until the sun came up and found them both still awake, still talking- whichever happened first.

 


	6. Chapter 6

 

> “Do not be amazed at this, for a time is coming when all who are in their graves will hear his voice and come out—those who have done what is good will rise to live, and those who have done what is evil will rise to be condemned."
> 
>  
> 
> **John 5:28-29**

 

_She's twenty years of strangers looking into each other's eyes_   
_She's twenty years of clean_  
_She never truly hated anyone or anything_ _  
She's a dying breed_

 

20 years of snow - regina spektor

  


Miss Dorothy Williams was a religious young woman- a devoted Catholic- that took pride on her knowledge of the sacred texts and scriptures. She often was unsure of a lot of things, but there was one thing she knew for sure: God loved all of His children equally and He had sent His Son to die crucified so His creation could be reconciled to Him. He had risen from the dead on the third day, and forty days later he had ascended into Heaven, from where He would return again in glory to judge the living as well as the dead that did not believe in Him. Therefore, she believed that men could only be brought back to life by the miraculous hand of God, and that it would only happen when the Day of Judgement came. Dead people did not rise from their resting places, walked up to their beloved ones’ houses and knocked on their doors. So when a woman showed up at Miss Fisher’s residence claiming to be Miss Jane Fisher- whom, Dorothy knew, have disappeared from Collingwood when she was a child-, the young maid did not react as if she had been standing in front of a ghost, like poor Mr. Butler had. She was surprised, yes, and the whole situation came to her as a shock, but she immediately saw that there were only two possible explanations to what was happening: either the police had made a mistake by presuming Miss Fisher’s sister to be dead, or that stranger standing before them was a liar.

 

Dorothy knew little details about Miss Jane’s disappearance; they were mostly comments her Miss had made here and there. She had never heard the whole story from beginning to end, but she had heard enough and had information about the main facts. She knew they had never found the body, and that that was something that weighed heavily on her Miss’ heart. They also didn’t know why Murdoch Foyle had done the atrocities he had been convicted for (not that he had admitted to being guilty), and that was another of the motives why she suspected her Miss’ did not have peace of mind. Miss Fisher had never told anyone she believed her sister could still be alive- she would have gone to any lengths to find her, had that been the case. She believed she was dead and that the person that had killed her was behind bars; in fact, she had returned from London to make sure he stayed there, where he belonged, where he could not hurt anyone else ever again. (Dorothy would never say this out loud, but she had a feeling Murdoch Foyle harmed Miss Fisher every single day just because he still breathed while Jane did not, and would continue to do so until the day the Lord called for him to judge him for his sins).

 

Sleep eluded her that night. She couldn’t get out of her head the calm expression on the face of that woman when she had told her Miss that she was sorry she hadn’t come back sooner, that she had read on the papers they all believed her to have been murdered. Had it been a look of surprise, the one on that face, when they had ushered her to the kitchen, away from Miss Fisher, while she suffered from a nervous breakdown? Or had Dorothy mistaken it? The stranger woman had seemed worried, yes, but she surely could have not expected Miss Fisher to react as if a very old friend had dropped unexpected at tea time- or could she have?

 

Dorothy had never seen a person so distressed in all of her life- not even Alice after what that horrible Mr. Andrews had done to her. Miss Fisher had cried hysterically, scratched at her arms and pulled at her hair. She had seemed totally lost and unaware of her surroundings until Dr. McMillan had arrived miraculously fast- and for that Dorothy thanked God- and given her something for her nerves. Detective Inspector Robinson had arrived at the house really fast, too. (Dorothy could not help but wonder if he had driven as cautiously as he should have, or if he had broken one or two traffic laws on his way there). The inspector and the good doctor had stayed downstairs speaking to the woman and she had gone upstairs to tend to Miss Fisher. There was something about that woman that did not sit well with Dorothy; she would have to talk to her priest about having ill feelings toward someone she didn’t know, but she just had that wrenching sensation in the pit of her stomach that something very strange was going on, and that they hadn’t even seen half of it.

 

She went downstairs to the kitchen earlier than usual the following morning to find Mr. Butler already there. Sleep had eluded him, too. They exchanged a look but didn’t utter a single word as they started to cook breakfast. Dorothy didn’t know if her Miss had got any sleep. She knew Dr. McMillan had gone upstairs to her room after Inspector Robinson had left the night before, and she had heard indistinct talking throughout the night coming from her Miss’ bedroom. (Unfortunately for Dorothy, sometimes she could hear things that were going on in Miss Fisher’s room. Most of the time she fell asleep quickly and did not hear a sound after that, but on occasion she had stayed awake for a little bit longer reading her bible on nights Miss Fisher had been entertaining one of her gentlemen friends. She had even thought one of them had been hurting her, once). She had heard Dr. McMillan going to the guest bedroom shortly before the break of dawn. By silent agreement, she and Mr. Butler decided not to disturb any of the women and let them sleep in.

 

They were cleaning the table when Miss Fisher entered the kitchen.

 

“Good morning, Dot. Morning, Mr. Butler.”

 

She was impeccably dressed in a pair of dark grey wide leg pants and a beautiful silk blouse the color of yellow daffodils. Her makeup was as perfect as ever. She had done a good job at covering the traces of a restless night- she was used to do so, although Dorothy suspected Miss Fisher’s restless nights were not quite like this one had been. There still was something off-putting about her eyes, though: the gleam, the spark, the warmth… There was none of that in them that morning. They looked empty, and that made Dorothy sad. Her poor Miss did not deserve any of what she must have been feeling.

 

“Good morning, Miss.” Mr. Butler greeted her. “Can I offer you some tea this morning? Or perhaps a nice cup of coffee?”

 

“No, thank you, Mr. Butler.” She sounded so normal, so natural. It was as if she was putting on a brave face for them, as if she wanted to pretend that nothing of what had happened was affecting her, although all three of them present in that room knew that that wasn’t the truth. “I will be meeting with the inspector at City South Police Station, and I don’t have time for breakfast. Dr. McMillan will be joining me and I am sure she won’t say no to a strong cup of tea with a drop or two of something even stronger.” She turned to Dorothy. “Dot, could you please go upstairs and make sure Dr. McMillan has everything she needs to get ready for the day?”

 

Dorothy nodded her head and exited the kitchen with a feeling of worry closing in around her throat like an invisible hand. She understood if her Miss did not want to show vulnerability in front of the household staff. She hoped, however, that she allowed herself to be vulnerable in front of friends like the doctor. It was not a good thing to hide things- they could start eating at you so easily. That was why confession was so good for the soul. She wondered if her Miss would be open to the suggestion of talking with a priest. She didn’t suppose she would under normal circumstances, but maybe under the light of these events it was worth the suggestion. She was willing to do everything and anything she could to help her Miss- it was the least she could do after everything Miss Fisher had done for her.

 

She knocked on the guest bedroom door and waited for Dr. McMillan to instruct her to come in before she did so. The red haired woman was already dressed in the same clothes as the day before. She didn’t look too bad, but the lack of makeup accentuated the wrinkles around her mouth, and there were dark circles under her eyes. The doctor had opened the curtains and the sun was coming in through the window. It was going to be a beautiful day.

 

“Good morning, Miss.”

 

“Good morning, Dot.”

 

“Would you like Mr. Butler to make a strong cup of tea for you? I could bring it up here.” Dorothy offered.

 

“No, thank you, Dot. Phryne has asked me to accompany her and the inspector to visit the woman that came here last night, Miss Lucy Stylinson. Well, I suppose you know her better as Miss Jane Fisher.” Dr. McMillan added at the young girl’s puzzled expression. “Inspector Robinson wants Phryne to hear the same story we heard last night directly from this woman, he said.” Dorothy nodded her head. She didn’t know what to say. She wasn’t all that familiar with how police procedural worked- this job as a lady detective’s assistant was still fairly new- and she wasn’t even sure if any of this was part of a police procedural.

 

“Can I ask you a question, Miss, if that doesn’t bother you?”

 

“Of course you can, Dot.” said Dr. McMillan with a tired smile.

 

“Do you believe that that woman is who she says she is?”

 

Dr. McMillan pondered the question for a moment or two while Dorothy stood there, still. At last, the doctor spoke:

 

“Dot, you believe in God if I recall correctly?” she asked.

 

She didn’t understand why she was asked this, but she answered right away anyway:

 

“Yes, Dr. McMillan. I believe in Him with all of my heart and soul.”

 

“And you pray often if I’m not mistaken?”

 

“Yes, Miss. Every day.”

 

“Well,” Dr McMillan sighed “us the people who care about Phryne could use some prayers now, because whether this woman is lying or telling the truth, I have a feeling this unexpected turn of events will open up old wounds and leave new scars.” She closed the distance between the two of them and put a hand on Dorothy’s shoulder. “Please pray for her, Dot. Something tells me the road ahead of us is a difficult one.”

 

Dorothy had the feeling of an invisible hand closing in around her throat again. Dr. McMillan believed things would not get any simpler anytime soon for her Miss. She suddenly felt like the air had been knocked out of her lungs.

 

“I will, Miss. I will pray for her.” Dorothy promised.

  
Dr. McMillan gave her a weak smiled and exited the room. The moment she heard the door closing behind the older woman, Miss Dorothy Williams put her hands together and said a silent prayer.


	7. Chapter 7

 

 

> “To fall in love is to create a religion that has a fallible god.”
> 
>  
> 
> Jorge Luis Borges

 

 

  


_I’m not here, not anymore_

_I’ve gone away_

_Don’t call me_

_Don’t write_

 

somedays - regina spektor

 

Detective Inspector Jack Robinson was on his third cup of coffee that morning when the Honourable Phryne Fisher walked into his office in the company of her friend, Dr. Elizabeth McMillan. None of the three had slept well the night before, but whereas the doctor and the inspector were holding themselves together just fine given the circumstances, Ms. Fisher looked so beautiful and impeccable no one would have guessed she had stayed up until shortly before dawn suffering from the residual effects of a nervous breakdown. She was, as always, the most exquisite creature Jack had ever seen, and the world seemed to stop on its axis every time she entered a room.

 

He’d never believed beauty like hers actually existed outside the pages of mythological stories, fairy tales and Shakespearean literature. Ordinary women walked the Earth; age did wither them, and their charms weren’t infinite. The Cleopatra that had lived and reigned over Egypt had probably been nothing like the goddess the Bard of Avon had imagined and written about. Ordinary men - at least those that were intelligent, as he considered himself to be- did not lose their heads and risked their reputation for a love affair, they did not simply become a whore’s jester. The Antony that had been torn between the Rome of his duty and the Alexandria of his pleasure had not existed, for emotions that make slaves of men were only possible if fictional.

 

But then he had met Ms. Fisher- _Phryne_. Part bohemian, part bourgeois. Part gypsy, part aristocrat. She was so sinfully gorgeous that both humankind and nature stopped to stare at her, mesmerized. She rendered the whole world breathless when she passed by. He was no exception. He wasn't deaf to her siren song. He was only human and she was divine.

 

He found himself constantly struggling so as not to fall under the spells she casted over everything she saw and touched. He was on the verge of worshipping her, but somehow he still had a little bit of strength left so every time he was about to fall on his knees he maintained his balance. There were, of course, moments of weakness - the kiss had been one of them. It had been wrong, a sign that he could not allow things to go any further. But the three fates had laughed right on his face, for the same night he had shoved liquid courage down his throat to promise himself he’d give her up, all hell had broken loose. He couldn't leave her _now_ \- he would never forgive himself if he did. But he would have to leave her eventually.

 

He had decided this would be their last case. He would help her investigate the identity of this woman, and once they discovered the truth they would both move on. _He_ would move on. This one case, he kept thinking, he'd solve this one case with her and then he'd quit the habit, end their partnership.

 

The way in which she had confronted him about why he never called her by her name hinted that she was growing frustrated and annoyed with him. She was demanding things got a little bit more personal, and why shouldn’t she? She was a woman that enjoyed her sexuality thoroughly and who had implied several times that she wanted him in her bed just like she wanted practically every handsome man that crossed paths with her. (It was a fact that he hated, but he knew it to be true: she would never just want _him_ ). They had kissed once, and that had probably done nothing but to whet an appetite he had no intention of satisfying, and now she probably thought he was just playing hard to get, that -if she bided her time- she would eventually catch him like a cat catches a mouse. He had allowed himself a minute of madness and stupidity when he had kissed her, but he would never allow himself to become one more of her thousands of lovers. He had seen some of them, heard about some others. They marched in and out of her boudoir like a parade. Chinese businessmen, artists, aviators, anarchists, and only God knew what else! He wouldn’t let himself become a mere name filling in the blank space next to ‘policeman’.

 

Those thoughts had kept him up all night. He already had his failed marriage to deal with, and he didn’t have the strength or the will to survive another disaster. He was torn between what he understood to be his self worth and an aching desire that ate at his bones. But he would not let her do what Cleopatra did to Antony in that play. She may be a real goddess, but he didn’t have the temper of a Roman soldier - indeed, he wasn’t the kind of man Shakespeare wrote into his heroes.

 

After this case was solved he would ask to be transferred. Once his divorce was finished, he would have no other reason to stay in Melbourne and a lot of reasons to leave City South Police Station. If invisible barriers weren’t enough to ensure distance between himself and Ms. Fisher, then he would have to put physical distance between them as well.

 

This one case, he kept thinking. The divorce would be finished soon, and so would the case. And then he wouldn’t have to see her anymore. She’d move on, find another inspector to work with, and in between lovers (and this pained him terribly) she would forget that they had ever met.

 

“Constable Collins told us you telephoned Ms. Stylinson at the guest house earlier this morning to let her know we would pay her a visit,” Dr McMillan said.

 

“Yes.” Jack stood up from where he was sitting behind his desk and reached for his hat and coat in the hanger. “Shall we get going?”

 

“Separate cars?” The question took him by surprise. “He doesn’t agree with the way I drive a car,” she explained to Dr. McMillan. “We don’t share the same concept when it comes to motorcars and the speed they should be driven at. What it’s completely normal for me he deems dangerously fast.”

 

He couldn’t tell if she was being playful, flirtatious even, or if there was a trace of anger lingering in her voice. He decided not to dwell on this and just ignore it. She was tired and probably sleep-deprived, no matter how gorgeous she looked or how well she was dressed. He just wanted to get this case over with, for the sake of them both.

 

Ms. Fisher and Dr. McMillan arrived at the guest house a few minutes before he did, and he could have sworn she smiled at him defiantly when he stepped out of his car and joined them on the sidewalk. He didn’t know exactly what she was playing at, he only knew that it did nothing but reinforce his belief that the sooner he leave Melbourne, the better.

 

The guest house that Ms. Stylinson was staying at turned out to be a very modest building in an equally modest part of town. He remembered her mentioning that she had worked as a maid for some time and that she had recently become a widow, so it made sense that she had found accommodations in a working class neighborhood. It was nothing like Wardlow, but it was nothing like Collingwood, either.

 

A look passed between Ms. Fisher and the inspector before he called at the door. He was asking her if she was ready for what would come once that door opened, and she was telling him she was as ready as she would ever be. They seemed to have developed a habit of wordless communication that Jack felt was both amazing and terrifying. Sometimes it was as if Phryne’s eyes had a voice of their own and spoke an unknown, secret language that only he could understand, and they were teaching it to his eyes so they could talk back, so their eyes could engage in conversation without them needing to utter a single syllable. It was personal, and intimate, and Jack couldn’t help but wonder if she had taught the language of her eyes to other men, or if this rare gift was something she wanted only him to have. He always answered the question to himself with a bitter laugh that resonated painfully in his head: of course it wasn’t. He wasn’t unique, he wasn’t special, nothing set him apart from the others. She was a goddess and he was just mortal.

 

He looked away from her and realized he had his stomach in knots. His need to leave Melbourne was becoming greater with each second he spent in her presence. There was something about the Honourable Phryne Fisher that made him (and every other man in the world for that matter) fall for her deeper the more he saw of her. It was an intoxicating luxury he could not afford.

 

A plump, red haired woman with a crying baby cradled in her arms answered the door. She looked very disheveled and the front of her blouse was as stained with oatmeal as was the face of the three year old that was hiding behind her legs. They had interrupted breakfast time for the mother and her two sons, apparently. She did not look happy. Jack flashed his badge to her before she had time to speak.

 

“Detective Inspector Jack Robinson, City South Police Station. Dr. Elizabeth McMillan and Private Detective Phryne Fisher. Are you the landlady?”

 

“Yes.” The woman scowled at them. “Is my good-for-nothing of a brother in any trouble?”

 

Jack didn't know nor cared about the reasons that woman had for thinking their visit could be about her brother, and he was about to ignore the question when Ms. Fisher spoke:

 

“We are here to see Ms. Lucy Stylinson. We telephoned this morning from the station. She is expecting us.”

 

“Lucy told me that perhaps her sister and some friends would be visiting. She never mentioned police detectives. Is she in trouble?”

 

Jack opened his mouth but Ms. Fisher spoke before he did, _again_ : “Are there any reasons why she should be?”

 

“She is a nice lady, Lucy. Helps me with the kids. She never had her own - her husband died of influenza, the poor lad. That girl worked herself to the bone to pay for his treatment but it was for nothing.”

 

“Have you known her for long?” asked Ms. Fisher.

 

“I knew Larry, her husband. He worked at the canning factory with my brother - my younger brother, not the scummy one. And before that they had served in the army together. They were close. My brother sent a wire a couple of weeks ago, asked me if I could rent a room to Larry's widow while she stayed in Melbourne, said she was a nice woman and that she couldn't pay much but that she could help around the house. I said yes because I know Larry saved my brother's neck once when they were in the army. So I took Lucy in. She said she had some family matters to take care of. I didn't ask much.”

 

Jack would have hardly called them ‘family matters’, but he supposed Ms. Stylinson hadn't wanted her landlady to know much about why she was in Melbourne.

 

“She told me her sister and some friends of hers would be dropping by today to talk about something, asked if it was alright with me. I said yes. She never said anything about the police.”

 

“I assure you, Mrs…”

 

“Edwards.”

 

“I assure you, Mrs. Edwards, that Ms. Stylinson is not in any trouble whatsoever.”

 

Jack looked at Ms. Fisher with a raised eyebrow. It was not her place to say that because they simply did not know if it was true. He felt very upset all of a sudden. What was she playing at? Who did she think she was to be assuring Mrs. Edwards that Ms. Stylinson was not in trouble? He was mostly angry with himself - he had been the one to introduce her as a private detective moments ago, and what could that woman know about formalities and proper police procedure? Of course Ms. Fisher would play the part, and of course she would overdo it, as usual. But that did not give her the right to affirm there was no reason to believe Ms. Stylinson was totally clean.

 

“I promise you, Mrs. Edwards,” said Phryne, a very well rehearsed tone of camaraderie in her voice - one she must have used a thousand times before to grant herself access to places, Jack supposed-, “that we won't be long.” She smiled at the woman. “We are police detectives but we are not here on police business.” A little laugh escaped her, and Jack could tell that despite how natural it sounded, just like her friendly tone, it had been rehearsed. He knew her real laughter, and it was not that frivolous sound he’d just heard. “We are used to introducing ourselves like that.” She shrugged “It's a habit. We just want to speak to Lucy briefly, like she said, about some family matters.”

 

The woman relaxed and stepped aside. The small child that was hugging her leg was looking up at them with his big, expressive eyes, the oatmeal around his mouth already drying.

 

“I will go get Lucy. Please come in.” Mrs. Edwards said, and then she went upstairs, crying baby still cradled in her arms, the toddler waddling after her like a little duck.

 

Jack kept a blank expression on his face -a very useful skill that he had developed during his marriage to Rosie-, but on the inside he felt the urge to curse - to curse Phryne, the whole damn situation, and himself. Why did it bother him so much that she was acting as if she actually was employed by City South Police Station? She always did that. Hadn't he learned anything from the handful of cases they had worked together? She always did what she pleased! There was no way but her own. It felt ridiculous, really, being this angered by Ms. Fisher behaving like… well, like Ms. Fisher.

 

She had instantly won Mrs. Edwards’ trust, she had known what to say and how to mend the mistake he'd made by introducing themselves as police. He was not a man that didn't know how to take criticism; he had no problem admitting that his initial approach had been wrong. Mere weeks ago he would have been in awe of her incredible ability to put on the exact mask at the exact moment. But that would have been before the kiss, before he realized he had never felt for his soon-to-be former wife of more than fifteen years a fraction of what this woman made him feel with the slightest touch. Before he decided he had to leave her.

 

The Honourable Phryne Fisher charmed her way into everything, just like she had charmed her way into those first crime scenes, or into Mrs. Edwards’ house, and for the first time since he knew her he realized that it angered him. How could he be sure she genuinely liked him after seeing just how easy it was for her to change her tone of voice and her smile in a split second to make someone do whatever she wanted them to? How could he be sure she wasn't already doing that to him, hadn't already been doing it since the beginning of their partnership? She did it to everyone, after all, and he wasn't any different than the rest of the world. Maybe that was what was making him feel so angry all of a sudden.

 

The situation was starting to overpower him. It was as if a flood had come after the kiss, unstoppable and incomparable in force. The water was rising higher and higher, and he would soon drown. The only hope he had for survival was thinking this ‘family matter’ -as she had called it a moment ago when talking to Mrs. Edwards- would be settled rather quickly, and then he’d be off to another city, to a different life. A life without her. It pained him, but it was necessary that he left before she could do him more harm. It wasn’t her intention, of course, she wasn’t doing anything on purpose; he doubted she even knew what she meant to him and how she was affecting him. It was all his fault, really, he had let himself fall. He had to leave before his life was destroyed by the flood that was the Honourable Phryne Fisher. It would be for the best. He would end up an anecdote for her to tell people at parties, she would be forever etched on his brain and heart and soul but at least he would not have to see her and keep falling harder and deeper in love, wondering if he could ever be special to her, wondering if he could ever stand a chance to be more than a handsome man she had wanted to bed the moment she had laid eyes on him. Leaving was the healthiest option. His marriage to Rosie had become poisonous, rotten, intoxicating - that was why it was ending. It didn’t make them happy and the misery  was consuming them both. His life was already tainted, he could not escape one damaging relationship just to run head first into another one in which the other part was his complete opposite in regards to moral views and commitment. He was an open-minded man, and he was somewhat modern, but he was far from being the kind of man that would be able to have her once or twice and survive to tell the tale.

 

They heard footsteps and a murmur of voices on the second floor of the house. He looked at both Dr. McMillan and Ms. Fisher. The latter was slightly pale and a sparkle of vulnerability shone in her eyes for a fraction of a second. It was gone before he could say anything, his mouth even drier than before all of a sudden. He was thankful Dr. McMillan was there in case Ms. Fisher needed to be comforted, in case she needed a friend. He was there as a police inspector. He was there doing his job.

 

This is your last case in Melbourne, he thought. Once this one is over and the divorce is official you will leave this city, be transferred somewhere else. For a brief instant he let himself wonder if she’d ask where with the intention to call or write. He couldn’t make up his mind whether he wanted her to or not, but the truth was that the healthier, more convenient option would be that she didn’t.

 

“What if she really is my sister, Jack?” he heard Ms. Fisher whisper to him.

 

Dr. McMillan hadn’t heard Ms. Fisher’s words to him - it was a question she had addressed to him only, a worrisome thought she had shared with him only. But he couldn’t let it fool him: he wasn’t any different to the rest of the men in her life. He was just a policeman that by sheer fate had been called to a potential crime scene on the morning Lydia Andrews had decided to poison her husband. There would be another detective inspector for her to toy with once he left. There would be plenty of men willing to be with her for a handful of nights to feed her appetite. He just wasn’t cut to be one of them.

 

“Only time will tell, Ms. Fisher,” he simply answered.

 

“I asked you to call me Phryne, Jack.”

 

Luckily for him, he didn’t have to answer that, for in that moment Ms. Stylinson came into view, her long blonde hair in a braid like it had been the night before, and began descending the staircase. Hopefully he would not have to explain to Ms. Fisher why he couldn’t - and wouldn’t- call her by her first name. What was about to take place would definitely drive her away from thoughts of why he refused to let her in, let her get closer. One way or another, the resolution of this case would give her more important things to occupy her mind and time with: whether celebrating her sister coming back home, or dealing with the implications of a cruel person seeking revenge trying to make her think Jane was still alive. And while one of those things happened (and he knew he was a coward for choosing the easy way out, but it was the only feasible course of action, the only plan he could think of at the moment), he would leave Melbourne, and the Honourable Phryne Fisher, forever. He’d never hear from her again, she’d not call, she’d not write. And even if she did, he wouldn’t answer, he wouldn’t reply. He wouldn’t let the flood that she was sweep him away.

 

He had to remain standing for a little longer. That one last case and then he’d leave. That one last case and he’d escape the flood.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are mentions of child abuse and animal cruelty in this chapter.

 

> There were once two sisters who were not afraid of the dark because the dark was full of the other's voice across the room, because even when the night was thick and starless they walked home together from the river seeing who could last the longest without turning on her flashlight, not afraid because sometimes in the pitch of night they'd lie on their backs in the middle of the path and look up until the stars came back and when they did, they'd reach their arms up to touch them and did.
> 
>  
> 
> Jandy Nelson, _The Sky is Everywhere_

 

 

 

_Two sisters went to the river bend_

_Went too soon, they’re liable to drown_

_(...)_

_One sank down like a rock_

_As the other one floated away_

_Thinking about the ticking of clocks_

_And what will the neighbors say?_

_And a neighbor said:_

_Two sisters went to the river bend_

_Went too soon, they’re liable to drown_

(...)

 

two sisters - regina spektor

  


With the course of the years, Phryne had often wondered what Janey would have looked like, how she would have been like, if she hadn't been (presumably, but most certainly) killed. She always thought the skinny, little girl that had been her first partner in crime would have grown into a beautiful, elegant woman; that the long, tangled blonde hair would have still been long and blonde but soft like silk; that her eyes would have still had the same innocence, the same sparkle.

 

The woman sitting in front of her in the small parlour of the guest house had long, blonde hair like Janey, and her eyes were the same color that she remembered Janey's eyes had been. Her bone structure was similar to Janey’s, she thought, although this woman’s face was more angular, her chin more pointy, her elbows and knees a little bit brittle. She was so underweight that she looked ill, and there was sadness in her eyes. It seemed to be impossible, no matter how much Phryne tried, to find any traces of the child that chased butterflies, and gave her hand-picked daisies for her birthday, and believed in knights in shining armors and one-eyed pirates and fairies, in this strange person that was so dreary looking.

 

The person Phryne saw could only be described as the ghost of what she had always imagined Janey would have been like in her adulthood. But the worst part wasn’t that. Shakespeare’s famous words aside, age _did_ wither people, and the idea of Janey as a beautiful lady was perhaps just a metaphorical analysis of what Murdoch Foyle had been imprisoned for: he had taken flowers that were yet to be in their prime, crashed them with cruelty before they could fully blossom. The truth was she really didn’t know what Janey would have been like. But she wasn’t going to assume this woman was Janey just because they shared some similarities. Yes, her hair and her eyes were like Janey’s, but so were other people’s hair and eyes for that matter, and she’d never gone through life thinking that any skinny woman she met could be her long-lost sister.  

 

The worst part was that when she looked at this woman she felt _nothing_. Phryne had always had this fairytale-like fantasy that the bond with her sister was something magical and timeless, and that if some form of afterlife did exist and she was reunited with Janey there, they would immediately recognize each other in whatever shape and substance one transfigured into upon dying.

 

The situation as a whole was shocking, of course, if her initial reaction had been anything to go by. But it had to do with what was being implied- that her sister was alive and had stayed all those years away from her willingly; the actual, physical presence of this woman elicited no reaction from her at all.

 

She remembered a children’s rhyme she had heard once: _side by side or miles apart, sisters will always be connected by the heart_. Phryne had always treasured those words and thought about them often, recited them in her head like a mantra even, because they made her feel close to Janey. Maybe it was a silly thing to consider, but she felt no connection to this woman.

 

Jack cleared his throat and she came back to the present. The room was modestly furnished. Phryne and Jack were seated in opposite sides of a two-seat armchair that was worn from use, while Mac and Ms. Stylinson were sitting in front of them in a mismatched, equally worn out two-seat armchair. The small coffee table between them was empty except for a cardboard box the size of a shoebox.

 

“We were wondering, Ms. Stylinson, if you would be kind enough to tell again the story Dr. McMillan and I heard last night so Ms. Fisher could hear it directly from you now.”

 

Phryne heard something that sounded like her voice, and she felt her tongue and teeth articulating as the words left her mouth. But she had no idea where they were coming  from, for she was again feeling numb and removed from her own body. She felt like an outsider observing how a woman that looked like her sat there and spoke to Jack, and Mac, and Ms. Stylinson.

 

She was there, and at the same time it was as if she wasn't there at all.

 

“I don't think that will be necessary, Jack.”

 

Jack and Mac looked at her, eyebrows raised in surprise.

 

“What do you mean you don't think it'll be necessary, Phryne?” Mac asked.

 

Phryne had walked into that house knowing there was a possibility that that woman was an impostor. In fact, the night before Jack had told her he actually believed she was an impostor, that it could all be a carefully plotted plan to get money from her, or revenge, or both. But she had also walked into that house determined to find out at once whether that was true or not. If Jack wanted to follow proper procedure and open an investigation, fine. She had already told him she would be a part of it, that she would willingly work side by side with him; it was, after all, what they did best. But she didn't care for details, at least not for now. What Phryne wanted to know, what she _needed_ to make up her mind about, was whether this woman was really her sister or a fraud. If she was Janey, she had all the time in the world to listen to her. If she wasn't, then she wanted to hear no more from her.

 

She chose to ignore both Mac’s question and Jack's perplex, inquisitorial expression, and talked to Ms. Stylinson as if they were alone.

 

“When my sister was six, our Father found her playing with a stray kitten. He was drunk, and the kitten was meowing 'too loud’ for his liking, so he got mad. He threatened my sister with something but I got in the way, and he didn't harm her.”

 

She still remembered that day vividly. Memories of her father's violent and abusive behavior were fresh, but that one was particularly fresher and she revisited it more often than the others. His aggression could have killed Janey, and it was a miracle that it hadn't killed Phryne. And then that bastard had made them watch as he drowned the kitten in a tin bucket. The ordeal had been so traumatic, both girls had had nightmares for weeks.

 

The woman’s voice was soft and sweet, but her words hit Phryne like a bullet. They impacted her with such force they did away with the numbness, and all of a sudden she felt she was back in her own body:

 

“He harmed _you_. He smashed the bottle of ron he had just finished and slashed you across the abdomen with a big glass splinter. He was aiming for my face, but you tried to push him away and got hurt in my place. You were always getting hurt, beaten up and punished in my place.”

 

Phryne had never told anyone- not even Mac- about her father slashing her with a shattered piece from a bottle of ron, or the act of animal cruelty he had forced his two daughters to watch. Everything this woman had said about the incident with her father (their father?) and the glass splinter was true. She still had a faint scar (it hadn’t been a deep cut) across her stomach, a reminder of the abusive household she had lived in during her childhood. A reminder of the beast she had for a father. A reminder of the lengths she would have gone to just to protect her Janey, even from such a young age.

 

Her eyes were burning with tears. She wanted to dry them but her hands weren’t responding- her fingers were tingling, and she was sure she was going to be sick if the acid sensation going up and down her throat didn’t stop. She wanted to run, but knew her legs wouldn’t take her very far- even if she managed to stand, they would probably betray her and she’d collapse. Her heart was beating so fast it was hurting her ribcage.

 

With the air knocked out of her lungs, desperation rising in her chest, it took every ounce of strength she had to keep listening to what the woman was saying. She focused all of her attention on that voice, completely unaware of anything else going on in the room.

 

“You were always taking care of me, stealing food so I could eat, giving me your clothes in winter so I wouldn’t be cold, making up stories with me while we wandered around Collingwood so I’d be distracted from the horrors we saw and experienced in our home. My biggest fear was that you’d die protecting me, that you’d die alone in that cupboard after without food or water. Or that he’d lose control and beat you to death. When that woman took me away I was scared at first, and I cried because I missed you, but then I understood it was for the better. You wouldn’t have to starve so I could have your share of food. You wouldn’t have to get in the way every time he tried to hurt me. If you didn’t have to take care of me so much, then you could take better care of yourself. I wouldn’t be a burden on your shoulders anymore.”

 

“I never thought of Janey as a burden…” Phryne said softly, more to herself than to anyone else in the room.

 

“The woman that took me said she was my mother, that I was _hers_ and that Mr. Fisher was a bad person that had stolen me from her. I don’t know if I believed her because the story she told me made sense- he was a monster, he was violent, she wasn’t describing anything I hadn’t seen before-, or because I wanted a loving mother so much I let her be _mine_ . She had an enormous need to be someone’s mother, and I had an enormous need for a mother’s love. So when it was clear that she didn’t want to hurt me or do anything bad to me, I decided to stay with her. I thought things would be better that way. That _you_ would be better off that way.”

 

Ms. Stylinson’s eyes were watery, and it was with trembling hands that she took off the lid of the cardboard box. Inside there was a pair of Mary Janes.They were old and worn, but Phryne recognized them immediately.

 

“These were too big for my feet when you gave them to me, remember? Mine had holes in them, so you gave me yours and took the other pair. You said they were just fine and that you wanted them, begged me to let you have them. They didn't even fit properly, they were too small. You just wanted me to have the better pair of shoes, just like you always wanted me to have the bigger slice of bread or the warmer bowl of soup. I kept the shoes all these years. And this, too,” She looked for something else inside the box, something Phryne hadn't noticed. When Ms. Stylinson found it, she held it out in her open palm so Phryne could see it, and said “one of the blue ribbons you had used that morning to braid my hair.”

 

Her lips quivered. She let out a sob.

 

“I thought you were dead…”

 

And by saying those words out loud she was admitting to herself that she believed that woman.

 

She was Janey.


	9. Chapter 9

 

 

 

 

> **Rigor Samsa**
> 
> _n_. a kind of psychological exoskeleton that can protect you from pain and contain your anxieties, but always ends up cracking under pressure or hollowed out by time—and will keep growing back again and again, until you develop a more sophisticated emotional structure, held up by a strong and flexible spine, built less like a fortress than a cluster of treehouses.

 

 

 

_I hope you forgive the transgressions_

_I've given you love_

_And I've given you anger as well_

_And I meant them both_

 

a cannon - regina spektor

 

The walls were closing in on her.

 

_She is Janey. She's my sister._

 

She felt something heavy weighing down on her chest. It was like being crushed.

 

_Janey is alive. She is alive._

 

She couldn’t breathe.

 

_She's my sister. My sister’s alive._

 

Her heart was throbbing painfully against her ribs. Her head was spinning. She felt dizzy, nauseous.

 

The inside of her mind was in a total blackout.

 

_This is what drowning must feel like. This is what that poor kitten must have felt like._

 

Miss Stylinson - _Janey_ \- was now standing in front of her, sobbing softly. She was petite, like Phryne, but somehow more fragile looking- maybe because she was so thin, just skin and bones. She bent over and put her arms around Phryne’s neck, gently pulling her up on her feet and hugging her tightly while Jack and Mac remained seated, looking at them.

 

Phryne froze, arms motionless at her sides. She wanted to move, _do_ something, _anything_ (exactly what, she didn’t know), but her body wasn’t responding.

 

She felt trapped.

 

She needed air.

 

She needed space.

 

Jack saw she was tense and non-responsive, that Miss Stylinson - _now, apparently, Janey Fisher_ , he mentally corrected himself- was smothering her. He got up and carefully approached both women and, taking a handkerchief out the pocket of his coat, tapped the younger woman on the shoulder and offered it to her.

 

“Oh, thank you!” she said, and wiped her eyes. “Thank you, inspector.”

 

Phryne was trying to breathe again, but she couldn't. Her muscles, her nerves, her lungs- nothing seemed to be working. She wasn't aware of her surroundings- the ceiling and the floor could have switched places in the last five minutes for all she knew.

 

Dr. McMillan could see (and so could Jack) that Phryne wasn’t comfortable, that she didn’t feel well and didn’t want to be touched. The poor woman was having trouble breathing and she was nearly catatonic. The doctor knew this because she had seen the same symptoms a thousand times before when she had served as a nurse in the war. Phryne needed air and space.

 

“Phryne…” Miss Stylinson (Jack couldn’t bring himself to think of that woman as Jane Fisher yet) was looking at Miss Fisher with worry, as if she didn't understand why her older sister wasn't holding onto her for dear life. As if she was surprised that Miss Fisher could be in such a state of shock.

 

 _Didn't she see for herself what Phryne was like last night?_ Dr. McMillan thought. _Hysterically crying and scratching at her own arms, pulling out her own hair._

 

“Phryne, aren't you happy I'm here?” the woman asked, tears streaming down her face. She looked like a sad, little child, Jack thought. And yet he couldn't bring himself to feel any compassion for her.

 

“Let's give Phryne some space, dear,” Dr. McMillan told Miss Stylinson, guiding her to sit back down on the armchair. “She is in a bit of a shock right now. It’s understandable, don't you think?”

 

“Why don’t we step outside for a moment, Miss Fisher?” Jack suggested, his hand inches away from Phryne’s lower back. He wanted to guide her outside of the parlour, outside of the house, but he didn’t dare touch her. He couldn’t allow himself, he couldn’t succumb to his need for physical contact. A hand on her back could have seemed innocent enough to anyone else, but he didn’t trust himself- it would end up, somehow, becoming meaningful to him, he’d end up reading too much into it. If he touched her, even in the slightest, briefest way possible, he wasn’t sure he would be able to maintain his decision. A simple brush, he knew, could make him reconsider leaving Melbourne. He couldn’t- wouldn’t- allow himself that.

 

Jack’s voice got through to her. It sounded so familiar, so comforting. She once again found herself wishing it was something tangible she could hold onto. Phryne couldn’t make out exactly what he was saying, just like she couldn’t make out any of the words Mac was saying to Janey. However, she did know she wanted to let Jack’s voice wash over her and calm her until the fright passed and she stopped feeling so numb, so disconnected, drowning in the dark.

 

She stood still motionless, a blank expression on her face. He didn’t know if she was actually listening to him.

 

“Miss Fisher,” he called again. He saw out of the corner of his eyes Dr. McMillan and Miss Stylinson sitting on the armchair, the former explaining to the latter that Miss Fisher’s reaction was understandable.

 

“Let’s go ask your landlady for some water, dear.” Dr. McMillan said. And then the two stepped outside of the parlor, Miss Stylinson casting one last glance at both detectives.

 

They were left alone.

 

“Miss Fisher,” Jack tried a third time.

 

She could hear him, but her body was still non-responsive. Her desire for his voice to be something she could physically grab, something that could anchor her and steady her, was no longer there. Some sort of fury was rising inside her, swelling up inside of her chest. She had told him several times now that he could call her Phryne, and he still insisted on that ‘Miss Fisher’ nonsense. She wanted to grab _him_ by the shoulders and shake some sense into him. See if she could make him feel _something_ other than forsaken propriety towards her. See if he was _alive_ , if there was a functioning, human body- blood running through veins, muscles and nerves, a beating heart, lungs filled with air- in that impeccable pressed suit, or if he was just made of bricks. No pulse. No feelings. Nothing.

 

They made their way outside in silence. He still didn't dare touch her. He hoped some fresh air would do her good, clear her head. He had seen shock and trauma more times that he could count- when he’d been at war, in the line of duty. Not everyone reacted the same way, but he knew personal space was important, as was oxygen.

 

“Try to take deep breaths, Miss Fisher.”

 

There it was again.

 

_Miss Fisher._

 

She was angry, he could tell that. She was exasperated, and tired, and in such emotional distress. They were standing in the middle of the walkside in a working-class neighbour they were both unfamiliar with, and Dr. McMillan was still inside the guest house with Miss Stylinson. Under any other circumstances he wouldn't have thought of it, but right now it seemed that maybe a walk would be good. Maybe it'd help her calm and unwind.

 

“What about we take a walk around the block, Miss Fisher…”

 

She didn't let him finish.

 

She snapped.

 

" _Phryne_ ” she said in between gritted teeth. “Is it such a hard thing for you to do, Jack? Call me by my name? How many times should I ask you before you actually start doing it?” She was getting hot in the face. All of a sudden she felt very much aware of her body, and she wished the numbness she had felt inside the house would come back before she took it all out on him. It wasn't healthy, he didn't deserve it, but God help her, she felt like a grenade about to go off and he was in her way.

 

Jack tried to keep in mind that she was under a lot of pressure, shocked and off balance. But he couldn't- wouldn't- let her take it out on him. Allowing things to get more personal between them was unaffordable. He would leave soon, leave Melbourne and his failed marriage and _her_ behind, and while he understood where Miss Fisher was coming from, he was determined to not make things any more difficult for himself than they had to be. He wouldn't be her punching bag, he wouldn't give her any reason to think it was alright of her to demand they had a level of trust and intimacy any different than that between colleagues.

 

 _What an hypocrite you are, Jack Robinson_ , he thought to himself. He had been the one to kiss her. He had been the one to cross a line. He was the one there pretending to be fulfilling his duty as a policeman, trying to fool himself into believing this was just a case- his _last_ case with her. He was the one running away from his own feelings, from her. He was determined to put and maintain distance between them because he was scared he wouldn't be able to leave her if he let her keep getting to him. If he was to survive this flood, then he had to treat her like he would any other partner. He couldn't show vulnerability, he couldn't fall into her games. He couldn't let her get away with things simply because he had been stupid enough to fall in love with her, and kiss her, and then become so terrified the only solution seemed to be cutting her off his life completely.

 

The night before, when they had been in her boudoir and he had called her Phryne, he had known that if he started to give in to her wishes- even the simpler ones-, he would end up losing control and she wouldn’t stop until he pleased her every whim and became another one of her lovers. He wouldn’t be able to live with that- he wasn’t modern enough to accept it, overcome it and move on. It was a matter of self-preservation.

 

“This is how I address all my working associates, Miss Fisher: by their last name. I don't understand why it should upset you so much,” _liar, liar, liar_ “but you have your ways as I have mine. It’s nothing personal. We are just different. Can’t you accept that? That I feel more comfortable calling you by your last name?” He changed the subject before she could say anything. “Besides, I think other things, more important things, are happening right now. You just told that woman you thought she was dead. You believe her, then. You believe she is your sister.”

 

There was something about his tone that sounded accusatory to Phryne, but at that moment anything he said or did she would find difficult to tolerate, she thought. How she wished she could just hit him, hit him as hard as life was hitting her right now, bring him down with her and let him have a taste of what she was feeling like, how she had been feeling like ever since he had kissed her…

 

Why the hell had he done that? Why the hell had he kissed her? Why was he building up walls between them? What was the distance for? She was confused, and she didn’t like it. She felt control slipping away, had felt it for some time now. And she wasn’t someone that functioned well in situations she couldn’t control. She was like a caged animal, she supposed. Anxious and desperate and scared. And now this was happening, and he was there, and he couldn’t bring himself to admit that his involving in the case was originated by more than professional duty. That he was there as a friend, as someone that cared for her.

 

This whole thing with Janey had little to do with how she felt about him. She had been furious at him, frustrated with him, before this whole thing happened. And even though she had pushed all of it to the back of her mind momentarily after that woman had knocked on her door the night before, it was resurfacing now, for it was easier and a lot less toxic to throw punches at him than to deal with the emotions she was having towards her sister being alive.

 

“Do you believe she is your sister, Miss Fisher?” he repeated the question.

 

“She accurately recounted something very traumatic that happened to us when we were little. Something I had never talked about with anyone else before, not even with my best friend. Not even with my mother.” She took a deep breath. “The pair of shoes in that box was the same one I had given to Janey. Those were the shoes she was wearing the day she disappeared. And the blue ribbon she showed us” _the blue ribbon she showed me_ “is identical to the one I used that morning to braid her hair. She _is_ my sister.”

 

Things weren’t any easier (if anything, they had got more complicated), and she was still beginning to process it all. But at least now she knew she believed that woman. Come hell or high water, she believed her. It was Janey.

 

_Janey is alive. That woman is my sister. My Janey._

 

“You don’t believe her, do you?” Phryne asked Jack, almost defiantly. “I can read you pretty well by now, detective. You don’t believe she is Janey”

 

Jack sighed. Tiredness was catching up with him all of a sudden. He hadn’t slept well the night before, or the night before that. He hadn’t been sleeping well since he had kissed her, maybe even before that. His life hadn’t been the same since he had met her. The falling apart of his marriage had taken a toll on him, but nothing compared to what the Honorable Phryne Fisher did to him. A single look, the briefest touch, a barely perceptible change in her tone of voice- no matter the circumstances, everything about her got to him, undid him.

 

He couldn't afford to come undone.

 

The way Jack saw it, he had two ways to go about it. He could choose the easy way out (the coward's way out) and tell her he was glad she had finally found Janey: a living, breathing, safe and sound Janey, and not putrefact, torn clothes and bones buried in a shallow, nameless grave somewhere. He could wish her well in working out a new relationship with her sister, wish her well with whatever path she chose to follow from then on, say his farewells and leave Melbourne as soon as he could, the Honorable Phryne Fisher a memory so blurry that, hopefully, with time he wouldn't be sure whether she had been real or something he'd made up consumed by loneliness and desperation.

 

Or he could do the noble thing. He could tell her he saw potholes all over that woman's story that were worth looking into. He could tell her he thought the accusation against Mr. Fisher deserved to be investigated, that they should try to find out if he had actually taken a child against a mother's will to make up for the baby he and his wife had lost or if the unnamed woman that had taken Janey had been delusional and telling lies. He could insist they demanded answers until they had the truth staring back at them, undeniable and clear as the light of day.

 

But that would mean he'd have to stay in Melbourne longer. He'd have to see her, work with her, fight her anger and frustration, her flirting behaviour, and his own feelings. He'd have to keep fighting himself, his jealousy, his doubts, his undisclosed desires. He'd fall deeper in love with her and torture himself into madness denying himself what he wanted most, and she'd grow to resent him even more for not being modern enough to satisfy her hunger, for keeping her wanting. Always at arm's length, but never in her arms. Never in her bed.

 

The easy thing, the noble thing. The healthy thing, the crazy thing.

 

“I still want to lead an investigation, yes.” He said, finally. “Who took her? Was she really her birth mother? Did your father really rip her off the woman's arms because her husband owed him money and your mother had just lost a child? Don't you want to know the answer to those questions?”

 

 _Why do you want this to be over? No, I get why you want it to be over. Why don't_ I _want it to be over? Maybe because once the curtain falls on this one I have to keep the word I gave to myself and leave. Maybe I don't want this to be_ it _because I am not ready to walk away from you. Maybe I will never be ready to walk away from you_.

 

“Of course I want to know the answers to those questions!” She felt angry that he would think otherwise. “You do understand what a big thing this is to me _emotionally_ , do you?” It wasn't rhetorical speech, she was really asking. She didn't give him a chance to say anything, though. “Because right now, and back there, you were treating this like just another case. Jack, this may be another case to you, but it definitely isn't another case to me. My whole world, my whole life, is upside down right now,” she confessed, “because things as I knew them have just drastically changed, and I don't know what or how to feel. I am just feeling _too much_ at the same time. Do you know what that is like? Or are you always this stoical about everything?”

 

He wasn't going to tell her, no. He wasn't going to speak of his feelings for her, of his failed marriage, of how her kiss haunted him, of how fucked up he was to be actually thinking that throwing his life away and starting over was the only valid solution to the problem _she_ was. She could think he was a monster without feelings if she wanted to, but he wouldn't let this be personal.

 

“This isn't about me, Miss Fisher. I am just offering you my point of view, my opinion, as a member of the Victoria Police. I would investigate further, but of course the decision is up to you.” And then he added, without thinking, “I wouldn't mind staying a couple more weeks to help you with the investigation if you decided to start one.”

 

“You wouldn't mind staying longer?” She repeated the words without noticing she was doing so. She really did not have a clue what they meant. She really did not know where the hell control had gone, for she felt more confused, and weaker, and more powerless than ever. She was having a conversation with Jack that didn't make much sense, and in the middle of a sidewalk in a neighborhood neither of them had visited before, while her sister, her Janey, was waiting inside the guest house with Mac. And now he was casually making a comment about leaving. “Are you going somewhere?”

 

He hadn't planned for her to find out like this. Truth be told, he had not planned anything. Was it selfish, to tell her right now he would be requesting a position in Sydney and that he would move there once the divorce was a done deal? Should he be talking about this with her right now? The words had just left his mouth, he hadn't been thinking. There was something about this woman that messed up his train of thought- he hadn't been thinking when he had kissed her, either. Only God knew what else he was capable of doing- or not doing- when rendered thoughtless by her mere presence.

 

 _The cat is out of the bag now_. _You may as well tell her._

 

“I am requesting to be transferred. Sydney.”

 

“Oh.”

 

She was surprised. And shocked. And she didn't know exactly why but she was even more frustrated, even more furious. She could do well without absolutely anyone. She'd never needed anybody, she didn't get attached to people. She had bigger, more important matters to take care of than him moving out of Melbourne. And she wasn't so self-centered to believe this was about her, to take this personal.

 

_Liar. Liar. Liar._

 

She couldn't help but ask:

 

“Any particular reasons, detective?” She tried to sound as casual as he had sounded.

 

“Personal ones that I wish remain private.”

 

_Liar. Liar. Liar._

 

“Oh, I understand.”

 

No, she didn’t.

 

“I can help you with this investigation if you’d like, though. I don’t have an official departure date yet. I have some pending business that need resolving before I move to Sydney. It wouldn’t be a problem working on this with you in the meantime.”

 

She felt her head spinning once more, and even though they were technically out, she felt trapped. Claustrophobic, almost. She wanted to run- where to, she didn’t know.

 

For the first time in a long time, Phryne Fisher didn’t know what she wanted to do, where she wanted to be, or how to control the chaos around her. Because in that moment she felt consumed and lost in the most terrible chaos. And that made her desperate, because she liked variety, she loved mysteries and challenges and adventure... but she didn’t like changes, not when those changes were presented to her out of the blue and forced on her by the cruel, invisible hand of destiny. She liked to be in control, she liked to make her own choices. Right now she felt she had no control about what was going on around her, with her, within her.

 

The day before she had believed her sister to be dead, brutally killed by a monster. Now she knew- to some extent- what had happened to her sister. She knew that Janey was, in fact, alive. That brought up more questions than answers, of course, and she wanted to know the truth. She wanted to make sense of what had happened to her sister, wanted to know if her father had really taken a baby from someone that owed him as payment, or if the woman that had taken Janey had been disturbed by the loss of her own child and lying. Of course she wanted to know the truth. Of course she wanted to investigate. Her doubts, her curiosity, years of unanswered questions, none of that had vanished just because Janey had come knocking on her door.

 

There was her relationship with Janey itself: the little girls that had once run around Collingwood, underfed and wearing worn clothes, had grown into women. She still adored Janey, she had never stopped loving her sister. She didn’t care if it actually turned out they weren’t related by blood. What importance did blood ties have, anyway? She loved Mac, and Bert, and Cec, and Mr. Butler, and Dot, and Jane more than she had ever loved her father, and she had met them not so long ago and was not biologically related to any of them. Phryne felt she knew these people better, were closer to them, than the woman still inside the guest house with Mac. They had a relationship to rebuild, a connection to establish once more. That worried her, of course, and it made her anxious, and it was another reason to be confused. She loved her sister, but at the same time she hadn’t been able to bring herself to hug her, hold her in her arms like she had dreamed of during all those years. She wanted things to be the same they had been when they had been little and inseparable, but she knew it would take time and effort. It wouldn’t be easy.

 

_Nothing that matters is easy._

 

The day before she had been angry at Jack Robinson and determined to tell him he had to make up his mind and decide if they were going to fuck or not, because he was confusing her and she was not one to enjoy mind games. If she wanted to fuck someone, she did. If she wanted to have a professional relationship with someone and nothing more, she didn’t kiss them and then hid behind lame excuses. The man wouldn’t call her by her name because he thought it was unprofessional to do so, but he didn’t have a problem with kissing her to distract her from blowing up their cover during a case. He was a walking contradiction, really.

 

(But wasn’t she a walking contradiction too, sometimes?)

 

She couldn’t believe he was leaving Melbourne, leaving City South, leaving _her_. She knew things at home and with his marriage were not going well- she supposed he would be divorced from his wife sooner than later. But could a failed marriage be strong enough of a reason to throw everything away and start anew someplace else? Didn’t he value everything else he had in Melbourne? Couldn’t he see what an asset the Police Department would be losing if he left? Didn’t he care about anything at all?

 

(Didn’t he care about _her_?)

 

Why did she care so much about him, anyway? He was just another man. Men came and went. She liked that they did. She didn’t get attached to anyone. She didn’t fall for anyone. She had a lot on her plate as it was with Janey, why did it matter that he was leaving? Why did it anger her, frustrate her, that he was choosing to casually make a comment about his moving to Sydney just right then and there when she was trying to recover from the emotional shock of reuniting with a loved one she thought dead during years?

 

She felt like she couldn’t breathe again.

 

She needed air.

 

She needed space.

 

There were no walls around her, and yet she felt like the whole world was closing in on her once more.

 

She hated feeling trapped.

 

She hated feeling anything but herself, and not understanding what she wanted or why she had certain emotions. (Why the hell did she care Jack was leaving? It wasn't supposed to matter so much. He wasn't supposed to matter so much).

 

“Oh, no. Please don't stay longer than you should on my account. I would hate for you to change your plans because of me.”

 

“There aren't any confirmed plans yet.”

 

 _Don't get cold feet,_ Jack reprimanded himself. _You_ are _leaving. Don't talk like there is the faintest chance that you won't, because you will. You know it's the best you can do. It's best for you. Best for Rosie. Best for her. Your mind is made up. It's just a matter of time before you two part ways. Don't make it sound like it isn't. Because it is. Convince yourself, Jack Robinson: you are leaving before you're drowned by the natural disaster, the uncontrollable flood that she is._

 

“Like I said, Miss Fisher,” he tried to sound casual and business-like “I have some affairs here in Melbourne that must be taken care of before I can move to Sydney. Helping you would not be a problem.”

 

Was he offering her help because he was a good policeman and wanted to uncover the truth? Was he just doing this because he was a good friend, a loyal partner? Would have he done the same for anyone else in that situation? Was this another lame excuse to spend more time with her before he left?

 

“Your sister,” he said the word carefully, and they both knew very well that he hadn't been fully convinced by the woman’s story “may have decided to stay with her captor. She may have willingly chosen to spend the last years as Lucy Stylinson. That doesn't make what happened to her less of a kidnapping. There is a story that led to what happened to her. To what happened to you. Don't you want to to know it?”

 

She didn’t have to think twice before she answered. (Lately she felt like she was doing a lot of talking and practically no thinking, and at the same time it felt like she was overthinking absolutely everything. And she hated to feel like that, and she hated it that for some reason she was sure he was to blame.)

 

“Yes. I do.”

 

“Then we'll solve this missing person case.”

 

_And then I'll leave. And you shouldn't care much when I do._

 

“We'll make the puzzle pieces fit together.”

 

_And then you'll leave. And why should I care that you will?_

 

She tried for a smile that had no place on her face. She pulled it off, anyway.

 

“It is, after all, what we do best. Right Jack? It's such a pity that you are going to give it up for whatever personal reasons you have. Don't worry, though,” she added quickly “I won't ask questions and I won't go sticking my nose where it doesn't belong. Your reasons for parting will remain private. You see, I have a lot on my plate as it is. The only one I care about right now is Janey.”

 

“I wasn't expecting any different.” The bitterness in his tone matched hers perfectly.

 

“I think I am ready to see her now. And talk to her properly.” She took a deep breath. “Shall we go back in?”

 

She didn't wait for his answer and made her way back inside the house.

 

She was making her way back to what mattered, Phryne told herself. Her sister. Janey was the only thing that mattered now. Jack Robinson be damned, he could move all the way across the globe to the end of the world if he so wished.

 

_Liar. Liar. Liar._

 

Jack followed her. _Her_ , the one that mattered. The one he loved, whether he liked it or not. The one he would soon be giving up.

 


	10. Chapter 10

 

> "I take thee to be my wedded wife, to have and to hold, from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death do us part, according to God's holy ordinance; and thereto I pledge myself to you."

 

 

_The food that I’m eating is suddenly tasteless_

_I know I’m alone now_

_I know what it tastes like_

_So break me to small parts_

_Let go in small doses_

_But spare some for spare parts_

_There might be some good ones_

 

ode to divorce - regina spektor

 

He had only drunk _this_ much once before, on the night Rosie had ironically congratulated him on pushing her away for good. She had had a suitcase ready and a cab waiting for her outside. Up until that point, periods of two days- three, tops- had been the longest her 'visits’ to Annie had lasted. But she had looked so determined he knew her staying with her sister would stretch for longer than a weekend.

 

Soon it would mark the third anniversary of the day his wife left him. By some twisted coincidence, the date of their appearance at Federal Magistrates Court for their initial hearing fell on the same week.

 

It hadn't been easy on them, the war and its aftermath. Something within him had changed during his time in the trenches, and nothing had been the same again. Going back home- and he hated himself for feeling like this- had somehow been worse than the war itself. At least in the war he had known how to act, what to do. He had known what had been expected of him. There hadn't been much thinking involved. He had had to survive, and he had done so on skill and instinct. But he couldn’t ignore that it had also been a matter of _fate_ : he had lived, but other men- better men- had perished. Their wives never saw them again, and in some cases they didn't even have the chance to give the mortal rests of their loved ones a proper burial, with a priest and friends and family gathered together to comfort each other. All they got was a nation's eternal gratitude and a modest pension. They never got the chance to say goodbye.

 

His wife, on the other hand, had got _him_ : shell-shocked, damaged Jack Robinson, afraid of the dark and sudden movements and loud noises. You can be trained to fight at work, you know- to some extent- what to expect, and if you are lucky enough you come back a survivor, a hero even. But no one trains you to survive a marriage after one of its parts has been destroyed beyond recognition by things they've seen and done while the other can't understand what it's like and thinks you should want to talk about it because _You are a hero Jack, you should be proud of yourself_.

 

Rosie had needed that- a hero. She had thought he would come back home a hero. She had never expected him to be so angsty, so depressed… so changed. She had tried to help him, but he hadn't been very receptive to help. War had thrown them off balance and cracked the foundations of their marriage. He had eventually got better, but she had known she had had nothing to do with any of the progress he’d made. Jack sometimes suspected that she resented him for it, for making her feel a failure (not that he thought she was, not at all). Rosie had married with being a wife and mother in mind, and she had assumed those things would come to her naturally and without much effort as had everything else in her life. But then the man she had married became distant and taciturn as a result of the war, and lack of success in getting pregnant had only made matters worse. When they realized a baby wasn't likely to happen they stopped having something that was holding them remotely close together, and the distance between them just grew until they were two strangers living under the same roof.

 

And so the visits to her sister had started, and they had become more and more frequent as time passed and things between them didn’t get better. Jack had understood Rosie needing time and space away from him, he really had. And he had tried to find a way to make things better, but he hadn't succeeded. Maybe they had never been right for each other. Maybe they had never been able to see they deserved... something (someone) different. He hadn't known what to do, like he supposed she hadn't know what to do with his initial shell-shock syndrome right after the war had ended, either, so they had had to stumble around in the dark. He had often wondered (in fact, he still did sometimes) if she would have agreed to marry him or if he would have wanted to propose to her at all had they known anything about what the future would look like. He still didn't know about himself, but he was pretty sure what her decision would have been in that hypothetical scenario. He hadn't been the easiest person to be married to, so he couldn't really blame her if she wished she had never stepped out with him, and got engaged to him, and said 'yes, I do' to wanting to be his wife in the eyes of God and the law until death did them part.  

 

It would soon be three years since the last time he had drunk as heavily as he was drinking tonight, and that time he hadn't even felt as lost and devastated. He still remembered (he supposed he always would) how defeated Rosie had sounded and looked. She had decided it was over and that she'd be going to live with her sister indefinitely until they decided what they'd do with the house and how they'd handle the separation. She had wanted out, and after really talking for the first time in years some weeks after she had moved, they had agreed that they would wait three years and then they would divorce on the grounds of desertion. Jack had said yes to everything she had asked of him, and he hadn’t asked for anything for himself. He hadn't felt deserving of anything, but then again he hadn't felt positive about a single thing for a very long time.

 

He had drunk himself to numbness that night. He had blamed himself for failing her, for not living up to her expectations. He hadn’t been half as heartbroken as he expected he should have been under those circumstances. It hadn’t hurt to see her go, no- she deserved better than what he had to offer, and they both knew that. Rosie was, to that day, still convinced that she had done nothing wrong and that their marriage had had to end because _she_ had run out of patience, and _she_ had been at the end of her rope, and _she_ hadn’t known what to do anymore, and _she_ had decided enough was enough. She was sure she had held on longer than she should have, and Jack knew that she was right they should have separated earlier, before she had come to resent him, before he had ruined her life. Her had drunk himself to numbness because he had felt he had ruined another person’s life, that in becoming a different man, one that had been unable to communicate and connect with his wife, he had robbed her of the chance of being happy. He had drunk himself to numbness because he had failed to keep the word he had given her when they had married: he had neglected her, he hadn’t loved her, he hadn’t cherished her. She had been the one to leave him, but he felt he had deserted her long before she packed her things and went to stay at her sister’s.

 

Now he was drinking himself to oblivion for very different reasons. This time it _was_ because he was about to lose someone he loved so deeply he didn’t know what to do with that love, or with her, or with himself. She had never been his to lose, though. She had never been- and never would be- his to love. And yet his decision to walk away from her hurt more than Rosie leaving him ever had. It was excruciating, knowing that the one person that had made him feel _something_ after many years of nothingness was one he’d have to give up because they were incompatible. She wasn’t the marrying kind (not that he was thinking of going down that road again in the foreseeable future, so maybe what really bothered him was that she wasn’t the monogamous kind), and he wasn’t cut out to be one more name in a long list of lovers. And he didn’t want her to change- he loved her for everything that she was, he wanted her just like that. He wished _he_ could change and be more like those modern men she invited up to her boudoir. He wished he didn’t feel so much guilt over falling in love with another woman while still being a married man- he didn’t care that Rosie had left him almost three years ago: the law was the law, and their marriage wouldn’t be officially terminated until they set foot in that court twenty days from now. He wished he had the guts to stay in Melbourne instead of running away like a coward.

 

The alcohol helped him sleep through most of the night. When he woke up the following morning he was restless and had a headache, but other than that it was as if his dinner hadn’t consisted of an entire bottle of whisky: the numbness was gone, and the heartache was far greater than the headache. He had known to expect this, and he wouldn’t have drunk that much all by himself if he hadn’t had the day off. He was used to drinking and knew how much he could handle. He hadn’t intended on making himself useless for a whole weekend. He had agreed to help Ms. Fisher find out what had really happened behind the kidnapping of her sister. He was convinced there was more to the story. He was convinced that she hadn’t come back now because she was sorry Ms. Fisher had spent all those years suffering because she thought she had been murdered. There was so much about this case that needed investigating, so many loose ends. If that woman was Janey- and Ms. Fisher now believed that she was, because how else could have she known about the incident with their father and the drowned kitten?- he was going to find out who had taken her and if she had really been the daughter of a man that was in debt with Henry Fisher. He was more methodical than intuitive, but he had a feeling that woman wasn’t telling the truth- or that at least she was offering a slightly altered version of what had happened and why she had come back. Or maybe he just needed a reason to keep working in close proximity with Ms. Fisher so he was seeing ghosts and shadows where there were none to justify his wanting to get to the bottom of this. Before he had blacked out the night before (he had somehow managed to get to his bed and lay on top of the duvet), the last thought that had crossed his mind had been that, whatever the reasons for his interest in it, the case was worth investigating.

 

He showered, changed into fresh clothes and made himself a strong cup of tea. He sat at the kitchenette table, pen and notebook in front of him right next to the kettle, and decided to make a list of some details about Jane/Lucy that he wanted to look into. It was a habit that he had always found very helpful over the years: he asked himself the questions about the case that he would like answers to, and then he wrote them down so he could go over them one by one.

 

By the time he finished, he was feeling better and his head clearer. It had always helped him, work. It had always been his refuge, his hiding place, his anchor. Work had kept him afloat after the war, it had given his life purpose. It had kept him sane, and it still did.

 

He re-read what he’d written:

 

  * _Who took Jane Fisher?_


  * _Did this woman have a child? Are there any registers about a baby named Lucy being born around the same time Jane Fisher was born?_


  * _Did the Fishers lose a baby? Are there any registers on that?_


  * _Where did this woman take Jane after she kidnapped her? Where did they live? What did she do for a living?_


  * _Is it possible for this woman to have all this information on the Fisher sisters and not be Jane Fisher?_



 

And then, after giving it some thought for a second, he had added a sixth question:

 

  * _What does Dr. McMillan think?_



He wondered if Ms. Fisher had already called her parents, or at least Mrs. Stanley- or if she was planning to call any of of them at all. He wondered what she was up to now, and how things had gone with her sister the day before. She had offered the woman to go to Wardlow for lunch so they could talk properly. If he knew her (and by now he thought he did), she would have probably already asked her to move out of the guest house and go stay with her in the St. Kilda home. He wanted to find out about that, but he didn’t feel it would be alright to stop by Ms. Fisher’s residence unannounced. They had agreed they’d see each other on Monday at City South Police Station to start working on the investigation, and he owed her to respect her decision to spend the weekend trying to connect with who she thought was her sister, which he was sure she was doing.

 

He put pen and notebook away in the pocket of his coat. He wanted to get his mind off this case, and Ms. Fisher, and Rosie, and the divorce, and the impending transfer request letter he’d have to write soon. Tending to his garden would do him good, the fresh air always welcome after a night like the one he’d had. It was better than sitting in the dark, pouring himself glass after glass of whisky, feeling guilty for mourning a relationship he had never had more than he’d ever mourned his marriage. It was better than feeling sorry for himself as he contemplated a future that didn’t have the Honourable Phryne Fisher in it with so much more hurt than he had ever been able to feel when his soon to be former wife had told him she had decided she’d be better off without him.

 

He felt like drowning once more, and as he stepped outside in his gardening clothes he wondered if he would ever get over _her_ , a question he had never had to ask himself about the woman he had been married to for over a decade. He had made a habit of comparing both situations- he couldn't help himself, and it made him feel guilty because Rosie didn’t deserve it. He hoped against hope that, at least for the remaining of the day, he’d be able to shut off his thoughts and concentrate only on his plants and flowers.

 

When he was done, he went to fix some lunch for himself. He mostly ate because his body needed the nutrients to function, but everything was tasteless or bland at best for him. It had been that way since he had returned from the war. Saving for the stash of biscuits he always kept handy both in his home and in his office, it was unusual for him to enjoy food. That was why he was often surprised by his own appreciation of the snacks Ms. Fisher sometimes brought to the police station: he hadn’t cared for the taste, or the smell, or the texture of food in years. It was another thing that had begun to change due to Ms. Fisher’s presence in his life.

 

He looked out the window before he sat down to eat, and he noticed some grey clouds were beginning to gather.

 

Things wouldn’t have changed much after the divorce if he hadn’t met _her_ , Jack was sure. He guessed that even the divorce wouldn’t have been as hard on him if he had gone through it without the guilt that weighed on his heart because he had fallen in love with another woman and cared more about her than he had ever cared for anyone else. Now he had even decided to leave Melbourne because he didn’t know what to do with how he felt, because he didn't know what to deal with desperately wanting someone he would never be able to have, let alone keep. Because she wasn't, and would never be, anyone's to keep. And he wasn't a man that could have sex with a woman he loved if she didn't return the sentiment.

 

It was raining by the time he had eaten his sandwich and drunk his tea. It reminded him of _her_ , the rain, and of a French expression attributed to a woman that had been chief mistress of the king. It was an expression she was believed to have said after a disastrous battle that had ended the reign of the king and plunged the nation into chaos. He couldn’t stop his brain and found himself making comparisons again: the battle between him and Rosie was almost over, his personal life was definitely in a state of chaos, and the Honorable Phryne Fisher had come into it like the symbolical rain Madame de Pompadour had foretold would flood France after King Louis XV left the throne.

 

 _Après elle le déluge_ , he thought, his little knowledge of the language resurfacing from the depths of his brain. _After Phryne comes the flood_.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would like to thank @aljohnson. She wrote a post on Divorce in Victoria in 1928 that was very useful to me when I was writing this chapter. And I'd also like to thank @Fire_Sign for mentioning the post and sharing it with me when we were discussing Jack's divorce the other day.


	11. Chapter 11

 

> tornado
> 
> [tawr- **ney** -doh]
> 
> noun, plural **tornadoes, tornados.**
> 
>   1. a localized, violently destructive windstorm occurring over land, especially in the Middle West,and characterized by a long, funnel-shaped cloud extending toward the ground and made visible by condensation and debris.
> 

> 
> Compare [ waterspout ](http://www.dictionary.com/browse/waterspout) (def 3).
> 
>   1. > a violent squall or whirlwind of small extent, as one of those occurring during the summer on the west coast of Africa.
> 
>   2. > a violent outburst, as of emotion or activity.
> 
> 


 

 

_And all the monsters in your mind_

_Just wanna be nice_

_T_ _h_ _ey wanna be kind,_

_They wanna play nice,_

_They wanna be_

_Softer than the storms around_

_You feel them through the windows_

_And the doors_

 

tornado land - regina spektor

 

 

 

Miss Dorothy Williams had spent the better part of the morning tidying up the guest room and baking a fresh batch of scones. No one had asked her to do that. In fact, she had been given a free morning. But she had anticipated those things would be appreciated once her Miss returned home. Besides, she had known she’d be asked to do them anyway then, so why not save herself some time?

 

When she heard more than saw Miss Fisher entering the St. Kilda home, she knew she had been right to assume her Miss would have company for indeterminate time, and that the bed in the guest room would be slept every night from then on.

 

She had guessed correctly. Perhaps she had picked up some of the detecting abilities her Miss displayed on every case she worked. When Miss Fisher had left that morning accompanied by Dr. McMillan (and now that she thought about it, Dorothy would have to add _jealousy_ to the list of sinful sentiments she had been experiencing in the last twenty four hours. She'd need to seriously discuss them with her priest before receiving forgiveness) the young maid had been sure that if her Miss had any reasons to believe that woman was telling the truth, she would welcome her in her house with open arms. She had given her and Miss Jane, two complete strangers at the time, a place to call home practically upon meeting them. How could she not do the same with her beloved sister? It was in Miss Fisher's nature to be generous and kind, after all, and she'd so be inclined to do so with her own blood.

 

And that was why Dorothy worried.

 

That morning Dr. McMillan had asked Dorothy to pray for her Miss. And oh how had she prayed! She had prayed right there in the guest room, and then she had prayed again while she had been making the bed. And then she had said a silent prayer later in the kitchen, and another one while baking, and then one more prayer. She had prayed that whatever happened her Miss could find peace in her heart and mind. She prayed that her beautiful, selfless soul be protected from all harm.

 

She didn't want to see her Miss get hurt, but Dr. McMillan had been very honest and straightforward about how things would most likely turn out: whether that woman was Miss Fisher's sister or an impostor, Miss Fisher would suffer. Old wounds would be opened and she'd be left with fresh scars.

 

Dorothy didn't look surprised when Miss Fisher informed her that _Jane_ would be staying at Wardlow and could she please make sure the guest room had everything their guest could possibly need. No expression showed on Dorothy's face whatsoever. It wasn't her place to be opinionated.

 

One look at Dr. McMillan was enough to understand that she too had expected this to happen, and yes, she too believed it was precipitated as it was inevitable, for once Miss Fisher decided something little could be done to persuade her otherwise.

 

One look at Miss Fisher was enough to understand that she still was in shock and trying her very best to keep herself together under the circumstances.

 

And one look at the blonde woman was enough to reconfirm that no, she didn't like her for some reason, and yes, she would have to visit her priest soon to talk about the ill nature of these feelings towards a person she'd barely spoken with.

 

“I made the guest room this morning, Miss, so everything should be in order. There are fresh sheets on the bed and fresh towels in the bathroom. And I baked some fresh scones, Miss. Would you like me to serve you some tea after the Miss is settled in her bedroom?” Dorothy offered.

 

Miss Fisher smiled. She _really_ smiled. Something that Dorothy didn't quite like, something like sadness, shone in her eyes for a second. But the smile she gave her maid reached them, and it was warmth and genuine. It was real. Perhaps it was the only real display of a positive emotion Miss Fisher had shown all day, but of course there was no way Miss Williams could know that.

 

“That would be marvelous, dear Dot. And I would very much like for you to join us.”

 

“Of course, Miss.”

 

“Mr. Butler,” Miss Fisher called, and the man was there within seconds. “Please, Mr. Butler, would you help us with Janey's luggage? Thank you very much.”

 

“Of course, Miss.”

 

“I'll show her the guest room myself" Miss Fisher said, and then she disappeared upstairs. Miss Janey and Mr. Butler followed her, the latter carrying two small suitcases that were worse for the wear.

 

Dr. McMillan stayed behind to speak to Dorothy. Concern wrinkled the lines of her forehead more sharply, making them more pronounced.

 

“She is Jane Fisher. She knows things about their childhood that Phryne never shared with anyone else. She kept a pair of shoes Phryne gave her when they were children, and one of the hair ribbons she'd been wearing the day she went missing.”

 

Dorothy simply nodded her head. She didn't know if she was expected to say something. She didn't know what Dr. McMillan really thought or why she was telling her all this. She was just the help. Yes, Miss Fisher allowed her to assist her on cases. She treated her with respect. She was the best employer a girl could possibly asked for (she had a room all to herself!) But she knew her place. She knew she was part of the household staff. Voicing her thoughts on this… Well, it wasn't like sharing an idea or pointing out at something on a case. This was personal. This was about a chapter in her Miss’ life that was painful and had just been reopened.

 

“You feel the way I do, dear girl, don't you?” Dr. McMillan said. “You know a tornado has just entered Phryne's life, and ours as well. We care about her a great deal. We are like family to her, all of us. This is bound to affect us all, whatever happens and wherever this goes.”

 

Dorothy remained silent for a second. And then, deciding that Dr. Elizabeth McMillan was a woman smart enough to understand what she'd leave unsaid, she excused herself saying she had to get the tea things ready before Miss Fisher and her sister went back downstairs.

 

As she put on the kettle and found the saucers and teacups to lay in the tray, Miss Dorothy Williams heard Dr. McMillan enter the kitchen.

 

“Clever girl you are, Dot” the older woman said. “She doesn't fool me, either. There's something wrong about her. You can sense it, too. Let's keep an eye on her, shall we?”

 

Dr. McMillan was asking her to keep an eye on Miss Fisher's sister. Usually, it was her Miss who asked her to keep an eye on someone because they struck her as suspicious.

 

But the doctor was looking out for Miss Fisher's best interest, Dorothy knew that. The doctor herself was like a sister to Miss Fisher. And she was an intuitive, smart woman that for some reason deemed her, Dorothy, trustworthy and valuable enough to ask for her help with this.

 

Dorothy nodded her head, her heart beating so fast against her ribs all of a sudden she felt out of breath.

 

“I'm glad I can count on you, darling Dot.” Dr. McMillan gave her a warm smile. “I am sure we will count on the detective inspector as well. I will pay him a visit soon. If I read him correctly today, he will be wanting to see me as well. You know where to find either of us shall the need arise. Perhaps we won't mention this conversation to Phryne, if that's alright with you.”

 

Dorothy nodded her head again.

 

She had just explicitly agreed to something she wasn't sure was the Christian thing to do. She didn't know Miss Jane, it wasn't fair to be suspicious of her. Or keep an eye on her like she was a criminal waiting for their backs to turn so she could steal the silver cutlery. She had no right to judge her.

 

And yet it felt like the right thing to do at the moment if they were to protect Miss Fisher from any impending heartbreak.

 

Oh, well, she could always add _this_ to the list of things she had to talk to her priest about.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My friend @MissingMissFisher proofread this. I couldn't be more grateful for her suggestions and insights! Sharing my writing with her (and with all of you, of course) makes it all more rewarding and fun. So thank you @MissingMissFisher for being the first reader of this chapter. And thanks to all of you for having just read it now.


	12. Chapter 12

 

 

> **lullaby**
> 
> **noun**
> 
> A quiet song that is sung to children to help them go to sleep. 

  
  
  


_I know that you cannot be here_

_I know that you are not mine now_

_Looking out the window_

_At another window_

_I see toenails changing color_

_Like the leaves of fall_

_If you often smile_

_But often don’t smile_

_Which do you more often?_

_Smile... or not?_

_I dreamt a hydrant was covered in snow_

_A white light glowing below_

 

lullaby - regina spektor

 

The Honourable Phryne Fisher was familiar to the feeling of waking up next to someone. She'd had plenty of lovers walk in and out of her boudoir. She had shared her luxurious bed with them all, and many had spent the night. The presence of a warm, breathing body resting opposite to her happened more often than not.

 

She walked over to the window and cracked it open. It had rained the day before, and the smell still lingered in the air. She took a deep breath, letting the oxygen fill her lungs. The heart beating between them was restless and almost arrhythmic, for everything it had known almost all its life had now morphed into chaos.

 

She had an acidic sensation in the pit of her stomach that she associated with anxiety. It was one she had felt often during her life in Paris with René, and thankfully it had stopped being something constant when she escaped. After that particular chapter of her life ended, she had only felt it every now and then.

 

Ever since that call on her door a couple of nights ago, she had been feeling a permanent anxiety burning in her throat. She had slept very little the night before because of it, and at waking up that morning it had been so acidic, so intense, she had thought she'd be physically sick.

 

Her sister was, however, still sleeping soundly, curled up in a ball with a hand placed under her head. She had slept in that position as a child. When they had too shared a bed, just like the previous night.

 

She had asked her to go with her to the St. Kilda home. Jack had warned her about getting attached before investigating properly, but she hadn't cared. The words had just left her mouth before she could really process them in her brain. But she couldn't let her stay there, underfed and underweight and in that house with those crying children. The calling of blood, some would have said.

 

They had had tea and scones with Mac and Dot. Phryne had appreciated both women staying. It had been obvious in doing so they were showing their love and support for Phryne, for the latter could tell neither her maid nor her best friend felt comfortable in that situation. Not much talking had gone on- they had mainly made comments about the weather and the impending storm they would be having anytime soon if the clouds gathering up in the sky were anything to go by. There had been times where the four women had just sat there sipping their tea in silence, and Phryne had never felt so terribly detached, unnerved and alone in a room with other three people. It was odd as two of them were dear friends that meant the world to her and the other was the person she had loved the most all of her life.

 

Then Mac had had to leave to see a patient. With a single look she had asked Phryne if she wished for Mac to stay, and with a single look she had answered that it was all right if she went- she didn’t want to take up more of her time. Dot had excused herself alluding to important chores she had to take care of the moment Mac was out of Wardlow.

 

And so Phryne and her sister had been left completely to themselves for the first time since that day they had run away from home and gone to watch the circus’ performance.

 

It had been awkward at first, being alone in the same room with someone she had known better than anyone, loved more than anyone and cared for with every ounce of her soul, but not recognizing them. She couldn't see anything of her Janey's, not even a little something here and there. It had been strange, even upsetting. She had cradled in her arms the child that woman had been when she hadn't been more than a child herself, and she had sung her lullabies on the nights their drunk father had been specially inebriated and violent. The nights when they had felt powerless and belittled and scared.

 

Janey had acted around her as if time hadn't passed, which didn’t strike her as surprising since it was the way she had been behaving ever since she had knocked on her front door of her home. As if Phryne hadn't spent the last twenty or so years of her life mourning her death, chewing up on her mistakes and spitting out guilt. She had tried to make some small talk, had commented on how beautiful the house was and how Phryne's hair still was the texture of silk and the color of raven feathers whereas her own remained the color of sunflowers even though it had become a little bit mousy.

 

Easing into conversation had proven to be difficult. There were so many things Phryne had wanted to say, but none of them had made it out of her mouth. She didn’t know where to begin, and it was a weird, unsettling feeling because she was so used to knowing exactly what she wanted to say. She had never had a problem speaking about what was on her mind before.

 

But this was different. Nothing like this had ever happened to her before. She had never thought there would come a day in which Janey, her sweet and beloved little Janey, would walk back into her life. And then there was the pain brought on by feeling like she was with a stranger. Because the truth was that she didn’t really know this grown up woman.

 

Every time she had dreamed of hugging her sister, holding her in her arms, singing her lullabies again, asking for her forgiveness for having failed her, in every single dream Phryne had seen her as the little girl she’d been when Murdoch Foyle had supposedly taken her away. She had often imagined what Janey would have looked like in adulthood, yes, but she would have never guessed she would get to see it in the flesh. For she had always believed her sister had been brutally murdered and buried somewhere with the other missing girls Foyle had been accused of kidnapping and killing.

 

What would it have looked like, if she had allowed herself to imagine a reunion like this? Would she have thought she’d immediately recognize the little girl her sister had been in whomever walked through the door claiming to be her? Would she have thought she’d be unable to stop hugging her and telling her how much she loved her, how she had never ceased to love her, how desperately she had missed her? She probably would have. Phryne wasn’t sure she’d ever imagine this reality she was living, one where she didn’t know what to say or what to do. It pained her greatly that it didn’t come naturally to her, wanting to hold her and kiss her forehead and cuddle on the couch with mugs of hot cocoa while they shared little secrets. It was something they had often dreamed about as children, something they had spent cold winter nights talking about until they fell asleep despite they were freezing: what would they do when they were adults? They would find jobs, and they would buy a small, beautiful house, and they would have colorful ceramic mugs, and they would drink hot cocoa every winter night while cuddled up together in a couch that was _brand new_ and not second hand. That had been their dream when they had been children: they wanted to live together in their own house and never again want for food or warm, clean clothes.

 

Phryne had had the chance to have that, the beautiful house, and all the colorful ceramic mugs in the world should she wish to buy them, and all the clothes and jewelry and nice things money could afford, and hot beverages in winter nights. It had always eaten away at her that her Janey hadn’t, because she had been taking away from them before their family came into the inheritance that would change everything. Phryne would have given _anything_ for her sister to have everything she had had. She would have died in her place. She had spent many lonely, sleepless nights asking whatever higher being was up there why she hadn’t died in her place, why He hadn’t seen she would have been happy to do so, that she would have gone to an early grave willingly if that would have meant sparing her little sister.

 

Now she knew Janey was alive, and she also knew that the person that had taken her had convinced her she was her birth mother, that the Fishers had all but stolen her from her crib when she was a newborn. Janey hadn’t had an easy life as Lucy Stylinson, that was sure. Phryne supposed she hadn’t lived in a beautiful house, and she hadn’t bought all the colorful ceramic mugs she liked, and she probably hadn’t drunk a hot beverage every winter night before bed. The household she had spent the rest of her childhood in hadn’t been one where violence and shouts were more abundant than a piece of bread for breakfast or a bowl of soup for dinner every now and then, for it was true that they had gone hungry more often than not, but it was also truth that poverty hadn’t been half as bad as their drunk of a father. It only went to prove something Phryne had always known herself, even before she had become wealthy: money can’t buy you safety, it can’t make you feel loved, and sometimes rich people are the poorest in the aspects that had nothing to do with how much gold they have in their vaults.

 

She had the chance to give Janey everything she had always wanted her little sister to have, everything she had felt guilty and sorry for her Janey would never get to have. Everything she had wanted to give Jane Ross because she had felt that in helping that girl, putting a roof above her head and changing her future, she was honoring her sister’s memory, giving someone else the chances and the beautiful things that should have been Janey’s but she had died too soon to enjoy.

 

Well, now she was there. She was alive. She was real, and breathing. She was flesh and bone (mostly bone) that were still whole, not just putrefact human remainings in a common grave somewhere.

 

Janey was alive.

 

Her Janey was alive.

 

The love she had for her sister had to be stronger, more important than anything else she could feel under the circumstances. It had to be capable of overcoming panic and fear and confusion.

 

She had to make an effort, she had decided. She couldn’t just stay there in silence with her, with the person that had always mattered the most to her, while she made small talk about how beautiful the lounge and the tapestries were and how very good taste she had had to decorate her house.

 

So she had asked Janey if she wanted a mug of hot chocolate. Her sister’s face had lit up at Phryne’s suggestion, and she had been quick to add in a suggestion herself:

 

“We could cuddle up together like we dreamed of when we were little, remember?”

 

“Yes, Janey” Phryne had said, fighting back tears and feeling her heart beating scandalously against her chest. “Yes, Janey, of course I remember.”

 

So Phryne had asked Mr. Butler to make hot cocoa for them, and then they had gone upstairs to her boudoir with a smoking mug each. Phryne had sat on the bed and had gestured for Janey to do the same; the younger woman had done so, shyly at first, but then she had propped herself up with a bunch of pillows, her older sister by her side.

 

It hadn’t felt less awkward, laying in bed together sipping the hot drink, and conversation hadn’t flowed more naturally, but it had been different somehow. The moment Janey had mentioned cuddling and drinking hot cocoa had been a dream they’d had as children, something inside Phryne had snapped like an elastic band: she had felt relieved and relaxed because it was another clue that confirmed the woman there with her was her sister, and at the same time it had made her feel anxious because _that woman there with her was her sister_ and (she felt horrible for thinking this, she really did) the hell that was about to come- telling her parents, inquiring them about Janey being their birth daughter or not, telling Aunt Prudence, conducting the investigation with Jack, adjusting to having Janey there, and perhaps not all of that in that order- Phryne knew could devastate her life with the force of an uncontrollable flood.

 

And she feared she’d drown if she didn’t have something to keep her afloat.

 

(She feared she’d drown if Jack left- _once_ Jack left, but she wasn’t about to admit that to anyone else, or to herself for that matter. But she didn’t want to think about that. She was avoiding thinking about that.)

 

Janey had finished her hot cocoa and placed the empty mug by the bed on the floor. Phryne hadn’t commented on this, and instead she had drunk up the last of her hot beverage and done the same thing herself. It had been something they had done when they’d been children: they had often taken a jug of water to bed with them when it was too hot in the summer, and after finishing it up in turns they would leave it on the floor by the small bed they had shared.

 

And then, the younger of the Fisher sisters had curled herself into a ball on the bed, laying her head on Phryne’s lap. This had surprised Phryne, and she hadn’t known how to react to this. It was an action that brought back so many memories from when they had been children. They had used to spend many nights like that, Janey’s head on her older sister’s lap, the girl’s bonny fingers lost in the tangled, disheveled blonde hair.

 

It had always been second nature to her, being affectionate with her sister. She had been a tactile child, and the strong need for affection their mother hadn’t known how to meet had been indeed met by Phryne. She had cared for Janey, lulled her to sleep every night, calmed her after nightmares or when their father had been too violent or too drunk, or both. So when she felt the weight and the warmth of the woman’s head on her lap, she instinctively dug her long fingers that ended in manicured nails in the still blonde, still disheveled (even if not so much now) hair of her little Janey.

 

“I’m sorry I hurt you so much, Phryne,” Janey had said in a small voice, and Phryne had felt something hot and wet staining the fabric of her trousers. Janey had begun to cry. They had been silent, yes, and she hadn’t been able to see them, but she had known the tears had been there, running down the woman’s face. “I’m sorry I ran away,” she’d sobbed, and Phryne had felt the same pang in her heart that she’d often felt when they had been kids and she heard her sister crying because something mean their father had said or done. “I didn’t want to stay with her at first,” another sob had made Phryne feel as if her heart’d been on the edge of breaking in half “but then she convinced me. She told me she was my real mother and I believed her. You know how dad was,” a third sob had escaped the younger woman “how violent he got when he drank, how much he liked playing cards. You were always stepping out for me, protecting me. You’ve taken a punch too many for me in several occasions. It must have been so hard on you, Phryne. Everything you did to keep me safe… That woman ended up convincing me I’d be better off with her than with the Fishers, and I believed that ultimately you’d be better off without me. That you’d have a better chance at escaping that hell and making something worth with your life. And you have.”

 

“I wouldn’t have changed you for the world, Janey” Phryne had realized she’d started to sob herself. She’d been able to keep calmed and composed, all the while running her fingers through her sister’s hair, but her eyes had begun watering. “You have no idea how much I missed you. How much I’ve suffered.” Phryne had felt she’d choke on her words. “I thought you were dead.”

 

“I’m here now, Phryne.”

 

Yes, she was.

 

She was there.

 

Janey.

 

_Her Janey._

 

Well and alive and breathing and _there with her_ _._

 

But peace had still eluded the Honourable Phryne Fisher, for she had been feeling more anxious and restless than ever at that moment, with her sister’s head on her lap and the knowledge that she hadn’t been murdered, that she hadn’t been left to rot in a common grave somewhere. She hadn’t been cut off in her prime. And she had decided to come back to her, after all that time.

 

And yet peace had still eluded her.

 

Peace still eluded her.

 

Phryne tried to breathe in and out a couple of times as she remembered how terribly difficult the night before had been for her. She looked over at Janey’s sleeping form. She was still on the bed, curled up in fetal position and sound asleep. Her snores were exactly like she remembered them, soft and intermittent. It was the silliest, littlest detail, but she remembered them. It sounded like their childhood, hidden under the thin covers when their parents fought and Henry got aggressive. It sounded like pirate ships and princess tales and running away to watch the circus when it was in town…

 

Phryne felt suddenly sick, the need to vomit hitting her, the acidic sensation known to her as a sign for anxiety growing stronger in the pitch of her stomach and the back of her throat.

 

Janey had fallen asleep first the day before, tiredness catching up with her after the ordeal it meant going back to Melbourne and finding Phryne. She had had trouble falling asleep, so she had chosen to stay seated with her back against the headboard and run her fingers through Janey’s hair absentmindedly. It hadn’t calmed her, but it hadn’t made her feel more nervous, either. She had done that a thousand times before when they had been kids, and even though the action felt so natural she still hadn’t been able to reconcile the imagine of Janey she had in her mind- the little girl with the dirty blonde hair and the braids ending in blue silk ribbons- with the woman that had shown up at her door claiming to be her- the woman that had _proven_ to be her.

 

She had tried to empty her mind, relax and think of _nothing_ , but it had been impossible. The thoughts wouldn’t stop, hadn’t wanted to stop running, worrying her and tormenting her and making her feel all of the things she knew a strong, intelligent woman like she was shouldn’t be feeling. The fear and desperation, the sensation of drowning, that she had promised herself she’d never feel again after leaving Paris and the abusive relationship she had had with René during her time in France.

 

Phryne had eventually dozed off. It had been uncomfortable, falling into a light slumber while in a sitting position, but she hadn’t wanted to disturb Janey, hadn’t wanted to risk waking her up by removing her head from her lap. Several nightmares had troubled her, and at one point she had found herself shaking so much she had woken Janey up.

 

“I’m sorry,” she had said, trying to get ahold of herself and fighting the wave of nausea that had overcome her. “Go back to sleep.” For some reason she hadn’t wanted Janey to stay awake. She hadn’t wanted her sister to ask her if something was wrong or if she was feeling unwell. It was a conversation she had wanted to avoid. (She still wanted to avoid it.)

 

“I had nightmares after my husband died.” Janey had told her as she brought herself to a sitting position next to Phryne, her back against the headboard too. “It was hard for me when he passed away. I dreamed of him every night, sweaty and thin and coughing up so much until his handkerchief was stained with blood.”  

 

“I’m sorry,” was all Phryne had been able to say. Because she was, she truly was sorry. She was sorry they had taken Janey from them. She was sorry Janey had not found a way to escape or contact them sooner, that she had decided to stay with the woman (the supposed birth mother Phryne would have to get information on in order for her and Jack to investigate further) and then she hadn’t come back to find the Fishers, or at least Phryne, once she was old enough to do so. She was sorry she had had to lose her husband, and she was sorry for every day they had had to spend apart.

 

And she couldn’t help but wonder if Janey was sorry about that last thing as well.

 

That thought was one that simply destroyed her.

 

“I thought of you often,” Janey had nestled herself against Phryne, and the older woman discovered that they still fit together, like two puzzle pieces cut out for each other, just the way they had when they’d been two little girls that loved to embrace each other before they fell asleep. “I thought of you when I couldn’t sleep.”

 

“I thought of you all the time,” confessed Phryne, her throat even tighter.

 

“You used to sing me lullabies,” Janey had reminded her.

 

“Yes, I remember.”

 

“I would sing them to myself, especially the one you had made up for us. It helped me go back to sleep after the nightmares.”

 

And then Janey had helped Phryne lay down, and she had lay down by her side, her head on her older sister’s chest and her bony arms around the woman’s thin figure. Phryne had frozen for a moment, and then her heart had begun racing, such a state she’d been in she had felt the pain in her chest, in her ribs, as Janey had started to sing in whispers:

 

“ _Look at me, all happy and free, among the singing leaves, all by myself in my garden where the wind sings and sings. Everytime I go to sleep I close my eyes and I dream a dream, I dream of a land full of flowers, and all the flowers are for me. And if one day a flower is sad I took out a pencil and I draw on a smile. And when the rain pours down on my land the flowers are happy with their big watering can._ ”

 

Janey’s singing had helped her fall back asleep, but it hadn’t kept the nightmares at bay. It hadn’t helped with the anxiety, either, and right now as she look at the window and contemplated the gathering clouds (it hadn’t rained the day before, after all, but it sure looked like it was going to rain that day) she would give absolutely _anything_ for a peace’s moment, a quiet, thoughtless head, a clear mind, a couple of hours of blissful nothingness engulfed in a deep sleep.

 

She didn’t want to think about the implications of Janey’s return. She didn’t want to think about facing her Aunt Prudence, or calling her parents, or beginning an investigation. She didn’t want to think about Jack.

 

For the first time in her life, she felt like cowards do when they are overpowered by the need to simply run away from everything.

 

Oh how she wished she could just do that!

 

But she couldn’t.

 

She felt another wave of nausea and went to the bathroom, trying to be as silent as possible, for she didn’t want to wake Janey up. After she vomited, she washed her hands and splashed cold water on her face, rinsed her mouth and tried to even her breathing to no avail. She couldn’t calm herself- it was as if the memory of Janey singing her to sleep the night before like she herself had done so many times before when they’d been little were causing another anxiety attack, and this time she didn’t have Jack to ground her and steady her.

 

_Sooner rather than later you won’t have Jack at all._

 

The thought angered her and terrified her in equal parts, and for a moment she felt too defeated to pretend it wasn’t just what it actually was: a horrible prospect that did nothing to help her keep her head afloat.

 

She really needed to calm down.

 

She remembered she had a bottle of laudanum in the bathroom. Mac had given it to her when she’d had a very bad cold. It had relieved the pain in her chest (although back then it had had nothing to do with emotional distress) and helped her sleep. She knew she didn’t need it right now for medical reasons, but as she remembered how it had made her feel like floating, completely free and boneless, its effects almost as calming as those of an orgasm, she decided it would do her more good than bad to take a few drops of the tincture of opium.

 

She needed to relax.

 

She needed to stop thinking.

 

She needed to stop feeling so much anxiety, or she’d explode.

 

She didn’t want to explode.

 

She went downstairs to make herself a cup of tea- it was too early, not even Mr. Butler or Dot were awake yet- and then she went back to her bedroom with the hot beverage, trying not to disturb Janey’s sleep. When she closed the bathroom door, she was happy to confirm her sister was still asleep, the soft, rhythmic snoring filling the otherwise quiet room.

 

As she poured a few droplets of laudanum in her cup of tea, she thought of the clouds gathering in the skies and the storm that had been impeding since the day before, and wondered when Melbourne would be washed over by a flood, much in the style of her life at the moment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The incredible @MissingMissFisher encouraged me and helped me a lot with the writing of this chapter. She also made an excellent job at prooreading it during the different stages of writing it went through. I couldn't be more thankful to have her.
> 
> The lullaby Phryne used to sing to Janey when they were little, and that Janey now sung to her, was based on "Canción del jardinero" (Song for a Gardener) by María Elena Walsh.


	13. Chapter 13

 

> “And the heart that is soonest awake to the flowers is always the first to be touch’d by the thorns.”
> 
>  
> 
> Thomas Moore

  
  
  


_The flowers you gave me are rotting_

_And still I refuse to throw them away._

_Some of the bulbs never opened quite fully,_

_They might so I’m waiting and staying awake._

 

the flowers - regina spektor

  
  
  


Miss Phryne Fisher, lady detective, was waiting to meet Inspector Jack Robinson at the registry office, her attire impeccable and her nerves much more calmer than they had been when she’d woken up this fine Monday morning. This was due in thanks to the few droplets of laudanum she had dissolved in the cup of tea Mr. Butler had so kindly taken to her boudoir upstairs as she had been getting dressed with the help of Dot. She had asked the girl to go fetch a hat from her spare wardrobe; she hadn’t wanted her maid to see her adding the tincture of opium to the tea. No matter how much she appreciated and loved Dot, Phryne knew that she couldn’t expect her dear companion to understand that sometimes praying wasn’t always the answer to ease someone’s anxiousness (in Phryne’s case, prayers were never the answer to anything.) Darling Dot would have looked at it, asked what that was, and she wouldn’t have liked the explanation. Poor lamb, she would have surely thought those were evil potions brewed by sorceresses and the likes of the devil, and she would have run mortified to tell her priest about it.

 

She hated anxiety and the very unpleasant state of inner turmoil associated with it. It made her feel nervous. She had experienced it during the war, the fear of imminent death, the constant _fight-or-flight_ physiological reaction that had accompanied her in the darkest times, when she didn’t know if she would live to see another day, but knew that if she had to go then she’d rather go helping a cause she believed in. Then after Armistice Day had come and the Great War had ended, another conflict- a more personal one- had started in her life. She still remembered it well, how anxious she had been when she had left Paris and the horrors she had suffered at the hands of that violent, despicable man she had once thought she loved. She still remembered how much more anxious she had been _before_ she dared escape: the uneasiness, the worry, the expectation of future threat that had come with sharing her life with someone that had been convinced that he owned her, that he could do whatever she wanted with her simply because he had claimed her as his in the name of ‘love’.

She felt more relaxed and in control of her emotions when she arrived at the registry office, more focused and with her mind clearer and sharper, less clouded by the weight of what was going on in her life not only with this family matter and the reopening of the investigation of her sister’s missing person case, but also with the knowledge that Jack Robinson was considering leaving City South, leaving Melbourne, leaving her.

 

Phryne wouldn’t stop him if he did decide to leave, of course. Who was she to think she had the right of telling someone they shouldn’t do whatever they wanted to do? Who was she to do to others what she would hate having done to herself? He was free to go wherever he damned well please, of course he was. And she would be fine with whatever he chose to do with his life and his career. She didn’t solve crimes _because of him_ , she didn’t have a detective career _because of him_. He wasn’t the reason the sun went up every morning, the earth wouldn’t simply stop turning if he were to part ways with her.

 

“ _I still want to lead an investigation, yes._ ” he had said. “ _Who took her? Was she really her birth mother? Did your father really rip her off the woman's arms because her husband owed him money and your mother had just lost a child? Don't you want to know the answer to those questions?"_

 

Yes, she did. That was why she was there this morning. That was why she had agreed to meet with him at the registry office. The questions he had posed, she had asked them herself as well, and she did want answers, no matter how anxious the perspective of getting them made her feel. She would have to be capable of dealing with that, with him, with her family, with her anxiety, with everything, in order to uncover the truth. Only the truth would bring her closer, she had always believed that. The fact that Janey wasn’t dead, that it wasn’t justice for her murder that she was after, that it wasn’t human remains buried somewhere that she was looking for, wouldn’t stop her from wanting to know the truth.

 

 _“I can help you with this investigation if you’d like, though. I don’t have an official departure date yet. I have some pending business that need resolving before I move to Sydney. It wouldn’t be a problem working on this with you in the meantime.”_ he had said.

 

She was almost sure what he had meant by “pending business”- he was probably ending his marriage for good. Separation was one thing, but making things final was another. It was, indeed, something different altogether. It meant closure. It meant the end of something that- and Phryne would have bet her Hispano-Suiza on this- he had more than hoped would last forever when he decided to exchange vows with his wife before the eyes of God. No one proposed with the idea of separation, let alone divorce, in mind. Marriage had the connotations of something permanent, everlasting, and someone as honorable as Jack Robinson most definitely believed in its sacracy. Phryne herself didn’t believe in those things, she couldn’t accept the notion of a love that demanded you tied yourself forever to another person and behaved as if you were their property. But, she understood that for someone who did (someone _like him_ ) it had to be hard accepting that it was over, that it hadn’t been forever, that it hadn’t been everlasting.

 

So he was asking to be transferred. Sydney, he had said. She wondered why Sydney, if he had someone there- family, perhaps, or a friend-, if it was a city he could easily be transferred to without much questions asked, or if he simply had chosen it because it was far away, and he was one of those people that believed that distance was a better healer than time.

 

The only thing she knew with certainty was that he was leaving. He had offered to stay a little bit longer to help her solve this case, and then once that ‘pending business’ he had mentioned was finally sorted, he would leave.

 

_Leave City South, leave Melbourne, leave me._

 

_He’ll leave me._

 

Was he leaving _her_ ? Or was she just a casualty, something else he would be living, just like he’d be leaving the house he lived in and the job he had at the Victoria Police, and the other people he worked with, like Hugh? Was he aware that he was leaving _his partner_ ? Did he ever consider her _his partner?_  Perhaps, he had never gotten around to think of her along those lines. Perhaps, she had never meant to him more than a easily bored socialité that was too bohemian and too eccentric, too liberal and too hard to entertain, and that passed the time solving murders and mysteries because tea parties and social gathering had become too dull, tedious and predictable for her tastes.

 

 _No,_ she said to herself. _He knows me better than that. He has to. He doesn’t think I’m all that. He can’t think I’m all that. I have proven- not that I set my mind to, not that I thought it was necessary to do so, to prove anything to anyone- I have proven to him that I am so much more than that,_ she thought. _But that doesn’t necessary mean that he has to consider me his partner. That doesn’t necessary mean he’s to be expected to consider me as a variable at the moment to make personal choices. I am not the center of the world. I am not the center of_ his _world._

 

The news of his parting caused her to have mixed emotions, of course, but she knew that if she started to analyze them, if she allowed them to take over her thoughts and emotions, then it would be like falling head first into a bottomless pit, and at the time being she was already falling into a much deeper, much darker one with Janey’s reappearance and the implications behind that.

 

No, thinking too much about this was a luxury she could not afford, just like she knew getting emotionally involved or attached with, or tied to, someone was not something she’d ever want to experience. Look at what a failed marriage had done to Jack! It had the man leaving everything and everyone that he cared about, his job and his friends and his house, and moving to another city to leave behind the debris of his relationship with the woman he had promised to love and cherish forever! Nonsense! Forever wasn’t but a moment. Forever didn’t exist. No one could take it for granted, no one could know for sure that they had forever, so how could people be so stupid and promise something to someone else that they didn’t even know if they had it to begin with? It was ridiculous. She didn’t need more on her plate than what she had already been served. She couldn’t care about this, about him, in any other way that wasn’t wishing him well once this case was over, and he had his suitcase packed and his train ticket in one hand, his new life in Sydney awaiting for him.

 

A couple of minutes later, the moment the inspector arrived at the registry office and she saw him, she knew two things at once:

 

There was no amount of laudanum that could trick her physiological functions into thinking she was relaxed and not anxious about him leaving.

 

She was past the point of not caring if Jack Robinson stayed in Melbourne or moved to Sydney, away from her, away from the partnership they had been building ever since he had walked into Lydia Andrews’ bathroom to find her kneeling besides a corpse.

  
At least, that’s what her mind insisted on telling her.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for being so patient with me. I will not give up on writing this or any of my other stories, so rest assured that there will be updated for them all. Even when day to day circumstances gets me down, I do want to keep on writing and I will. Thank you all once more for all the encouragement.
> 
> As always, the lovely and talented @MissingMissFisher proofread this chapter. I hope you enjoy it as much as she did!

> The only sin is the sin of being born
> 
>  
> 
> Samuel Beckett

  
  
  


_So the mustard musketeers_

_Scaled their last castle wall_

_And went in undercover._

_One went in dressed like a priest,_

_One went as a gardener,_

_And one went in as a flower_

 

the mustard musketeers - regina spektor

 

The Victorian General Registry Office for Births, Deaths and Marriages was smaller and more lonesome than the Honourable Phryne Fisher would have imagined. She’d never been there before, but the inspector had - all in the line of duty that she knew so far, of course. And, apparently, he knew people that owed him favours, if the access they were granted to the registries was anything to go by. He didn’t say anything about it and kept his usual professional facade, but if there was something she was good at, it was observing and reading people. Observing and reading _him_ , especially. There was always a confidence about him, but there were moments- like that morning- in which there was also something else, indescribable  and hard to place as it might be, that let Miss Fisher know he had an ace up his sleeve.

 

They barely spoke while they waited for the person in charge of the birth certificates to give them the key. For the first time, she found herself not knowing what to say, albeit having a thousand things she wanted to scream from the top of her lungs. It was odd, the effect the laudanum was having on her now. Everything she was feeling- the need to uncover the truth, the anxiety, the lies she was feeding herself to make believe the inspector’s plan to move to Sydney was something she was past being affected by- everything was bottled up inside her and she felt no need to let it all out. Miss Fisher had never been like that, but the few droplets of laudanum she had taken with her tea that morning were making her feel numbed to the point she was unresponsive to the heavy load of emotional stimuli she was constantly on the receiving end of lately.  

 

There was a spoken agreement between the lady detective and the inspector with regards to the information they’d be looking for that morning at the registry office. If the woman claiming to be Janey was saying the truth, then the birth of a baby named Lucy (or Lucille) had had to be registered around the same time the Fishers had registered the birth of their second daughter. The one whose early passing had shattered Margaret Fisher’s heart and prompted Henry Fisher to do an unthinkable thing and take a child from someone who owed him money.

 

“Did she mention the name of the woman that took her?” Jack asked her when they were, at last, in the small room at the registry office where all the birth certificates were kept.

 

“No, she didn’t,” Phryne said. “I think she wants to protect her. She hasn’t mentioned whether the woman still lives or not. Although, I think she’s most likely to have passed away.”

 

It was easier than she had expected, talking to him about this. Perhaps it was the laudanum finally affecting her in the way she had intended it to when she dissolved it in her tea. Or maybe it was the fact that if she took a step back to analyze this as if it were any other case, it was easier to pretend that it didn’t have anything to do with her life, her sister, or her family.

 

“I doubt she ever knew the woman’s real name,” Phryne said to Jack, who was rifling through a particular drawer in the industrial-sized, metal filing cabinet that had all birth certificates from the year Janey Fisher had been born. She wanted to look over his shoulder and take a peek herself, but the close proximity would have been, would have _felt,_  too intimate. For someone that considered herself very tactile, she was in need of space at the moment. She didn’t want to touch the inspector if she could help it, for deep down the Honourable Phryne Fisher knew that the contact she had been craving with desperation a couple of nights ago before all hell broke loose was something she’d never have and that she had to stop thinking about it. He was leaving Melbourne, he was leaving _her_ _._ It wouldn’t be the first goodbye she’d say in her life, she had said goodbye to people and things that were far more important and had affected her far more so than Detective Inspector Jack Robinson ever had or ever could.

 

( _Liar. Liar. Liar._ )

 

She’d concentrate on the task at hand. They had to find her sister’s birth certificate and that of the girl that her father had supposedly taken by force from the family of a man that was in debt to him. Phryne had to focus on that. Not on Jack, or how good it would do her to take another dose of laudanum dissolved in strong, hot tea. This had to be treated like a case, it was the only way it’d be easier on her. On them all. Talking to him about the case had felt easier moments ago, so she’d have to do that: treat this like she would any other case.

 

“You’re monopolizing the drawer,” she commented to him dryly.

 

“I beg your pardon?” Jack said, the expression that always appeared on his face when she startled him with her usual witty, snarky remarks.

 

“I can’t look for the birth certificates if you’re hovering over the drawer. I’m here to work, too, Inspector,” she reminded him.

 

Without saying a word, he moved aside to give her the space she was requesting. They spent nearly an hour in silence going through the birth records, both of them avoiding to look at the other. It was odd, really, and once again she found herself wishing she had taken a little more laudanum with breakfast that morning, for every time she became aware of his presence in close proximity there was a fluttering sensation in the pit of her stomach that reminded her of the anxiety she was trying to rid herself from.

 

Earlier that moment, before they met at the registry office, she had tried to convince herself that she was past the point of caring for him and whether he stayed in Melbourne or moved to Sydney. But now that he was there, breathing in the air she was breathing out, his brow frowned in deep concentration as his long, calloused fingers went through record after record examining the written contents of each birth from almost thirty years ago…

 

“Miss Fisher, I think I found it.”

 

His voice (and she didn’t want to give space to the thoughts that were pushing, insisting to get inside her head: that she would miss that voice if she was to never hear it again) lured her out of her silent reflections on life without Jack Robinson.

 

The inspector showed her the yellowish paper, and she read out loud the information scribbled on it:

 

“Morrison, Mary Lucille. Born to Helen Marie Morrison neé Lancaster and Patrick Morrison.”

 

“And I think I just found your sister’s, Miss Fisher,” Jack said triumphantly, passing on to her another birth certificate. The names and dates on this one she knew very well.

 

“My father was so drunk the day he came to register her birth that he wrote in my birthday instead of hers,” Phryne commented more to herself than to the detective inspector. “Janey was born September 21st, I was born December 21st.”

 

“Daughters of spring and summer,” Jack noticed “With their hair black as raven feathers and braids that reminded one of wheat spikes.”

 

“Is that from a play or poem, Inspector?” she asked, immediately regretting the familiarity with which she had addressed him, for she was supposed to be focusing on things other than him, and learning to let go of a man she didn’t know she had been clinging to until he had casually commented that very soon he’d up and leave.

 

“It’s just an observation, Miss Fisher.”

 

“Mary Lucille was born August 9th,” said Phryne, trying to get their attention back to the matter at hand. “She is a month and a half older than Janey was.” She tried not to pay attention to the usage of present tense to talk about Lucy and past tense to talk about the second daughter of the now Baron and Baroness of Richmond. It was almost like admitting that she truly believed the woman that had showed up at her door, and that the little girl that had been the object of her adoration and the reason why her heart had shattered in pieces at such a young age wasn’t, in fact, the baby her mother had carried nine months in her womb and given birth to in their small house in Collingwood.

 

What did it matter, really? It didn’t matter if the girl with the blonde hair and the braids ending in light blue ribbons that used to play pirates with her in a ship made out of an old, filthy bathtub was related to her by blood or not. That girl, regardless of her precedence, had been her sister. If she had grown up to be the woman that was now telling her that her father had stolen her from her birth family, she would still be the sister she had known and loved. Even if now she had trouble reconnecting with her again after all the years spent apart. Even if it conflicted her and her every emotion in ways so complex and complicated she’d never thought humanly possible.

 

“Mary Lucille did exist and her birth was registered,” Jack said softly so as not to startle her, aware that Miss Fisher was deep in her thoughts. “She was born in August the same year Janey Fisher’s birth was registered a month and a half later, in September,” he recounted the information they had found that morning. “Now the question is whether…”

 

“The question is whether there is a death certificate with the name Mary Lucille Morrison on it,” Phryne finished Jack’s sentence.

 

“Perhaps little Lucy died when she was a baby and her mother was so overcome by grief she convinced herself some other girl from Collingwood was the daughter that had been taken from her,” said Jack. “We’ll have to look into that, Miss Fisher.”

 

“We do know that Janey Fisher has been missing and presumed dead. We will not find a death certificate with her name on it from when she was a baby. If the daughter my parents had died in her sleep, they never reported it.”

 

“We’d have to get more information on the Morrisons,” Jack said. “Where they lived at the time, what they did for a living. Did they have a criminal record?”

 

“A man that gambles his last penny away and then offers as a baby as a payment when another drunk gambler threatens him with a knife?” Miss Fisher raised an eyebrow. “I bet he was no stranger to the police department and the officers of the law. You don't go from a clean record to tearing your baby from your wife's arms to use it as common currency,” she observed with her usual dry tone and sarcastic style.

 

“Let's look into the Morrisons, then,” Jack suggested. “This woman,” Phryne noticed how he avoided to call her Janey, a passive-aggressive mechanism of sorts to express his disbelief about her being the missing girl from Collingwood, “told Dr. MacMillan and I that her birth father died from a sick liver some years after she was taken by Henry Fisher.” He had been on the verge of saying 'your father’, but the unconscious warning look that had crept onto her face made him change the words just in time. “If he was a heavy drinker like she says he was, then it makes sense that he passed away from liver failure or an ailment of the sort. We have to check whether this Patrick Morrison is still alive or not. And if he died, then what was the cause of death?”

 

She showed her agreement with an energetic nod, the enthusiasm made her relish the feeling of blood pumping through her veins and replacing the effects of the laudanum, that were, by then, beginning to wear off. It was stronger than any recreational drugs or opiates she had ever taken or could take, solving mysteries. Making the pieces of the puzzle fit and seeing how the little pictures turned into a bigger one. One that made sense. They were the notes of a symphony, the clues, and she felt like the composer, the conductor, the musician in the orchestra stroking every chord and making the music come alive. It was addictive, the sensation that solving murders and mysteries gave her. The thrill of it all, the satisfaction. It was better than a physical orgasm. It was intellectual pleasure.

 

And that release, that electric pulse and what came with it - all of those sensations were associated with the man standing next to her, the open file cabinet between her aching body and the metaphorical forbidden fruit that was the object to her burning desire.

 

Phryne wasn't one to repress herself- quite the contrary, she believed in and enjoyed expressing herself freely. But, she felt so frustratingly out of control that she was craving the numbness that came with the opiates. Out of all the situations that she had faced in life, this one had her pulling at strings so it wouldn't suceed in making her come completely undone.

 

Phryne's attention was redirected at Jack when she heard him speak to her.

 

“Aren’t you going to call them, Miss Fisher?” Jack asked. She didn't have to inquire whom he was referring to, for she knew whom he meant. Her parents. “Are you going to tell them, or Mrs. Stanley, about this woman? About her claims? Have you changed your mind about waiting?”

 

“The answer is still the same, Inspector,” she said, silently cursing the rush of anxiety threatening to overwhelm her again. Perhaps she’d have to take another “medicinal” drink to soothe her again as soon as she went back to Wardlow. “I want to gather information first, analyze the case properly…”

 

“It sounds like my modus operandi,” he commented. “Could it be that my ways have rubbed off on you, Miss Fisher?”

 

Neither of them knew exactly how, but they were hovering over the cabinet file with their faces so close one to the other that he could count the freckles in her nose and she could appreciate how long and perfect his eyelashes actually were, and how fresh his breath smelt. She was reminded- and could tell by the look in his eyes that the same thoughts were running through his head- of the kiss they had shared at the French restaurant. And how things had suffered irrevocable changes ever since. The sparks, the electricity between them was excruciatingly beautiful and terrible in equal parts. It was so palpable, as palpable as the inspector’s breath tickling her lips…

 

She couldn’t kiss him. She couldn’t do this to herself. She didn’t wait on any man or beg for one’s affection or attention. It was selfish and childish that she thought so, but she was used to men begging for hers. She couldn’t, wouldn’t, kiss a married man (no matter if she had her suspicious that he’d be divorced sooner rather than later) that had shown little courage when it came to defining and understanding the relationship between them. Because they both knew that what they had ran deeper than a partnership, but he wasn’t ready- or didn’t want to admit that he was ready- to take it any further. He was constantly putting up an invisible wall between them, making it taller and taller brick by brick with actions that said ‘this far and no further’. And yet, he was also the most infuriating, complicated, complex man she’d ever known - and she knew quite a lot of men. He didn’t want to have a sexual relationship with her, but he fed her appetite by kissing her when they could have simply done without that, and was even now leaning towards her when they found themselves with their lips inches apart...

 

It would be a mistake. She had more important things on her plate. There was an ongoing investigation they were working on - regarding her sister, nonetheless! Her Janey! Or the woman that girl had been. It wasn’t the place to mess around, it wasn’t the time to get confused and emotional and…

 

Before either of them could stop, their lips connected over the open cabinet file. Damn Jack Robinson’s divorce, and that bloody idea of his to be transferred to Sydney! Damn her, and these uncharacteristic  nerves, and overthinking! And damn the laudanum for wearing off so quickly from her emotionally overloaded system!

 

And damn Jack Robinson, the man himself, for making her cling to him like he was the only real thing anchoring her to the world as she knew it.


End file.
